SIX  STARS 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


Old   Captain,"   he  said,  half  aloud. 

—See  page  43 


SIX  STARS 


BY 

NELSON    LLOYD 

AUTHOR   OF   "  THE   SOLDIER  OF  THE  VALLEY, 
"  MRS.    RADIGAN,"    ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
NEW   YORK::::::::::::::::::::  1906 


COPYRIGHT,  1906,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

Published,  April,  1906 


TKOW   OI«tCTO«» 

AND  lOOKtlNOmQ  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  THIRD  AND  A  HALF  GENERATION.      ...        1 

THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEY 23 

THE  NATURAL-BORN  PREACHER 49 

THE  SNYDER  COUNTY  GOLD-STRIKK 73 

THE  ADMIRABLE  WHOOPLE 99 

THE  SECOND  VENTURE 122 

THE  POSY  SONG 142 

THE  ANGELS  OF  Six  STARS 161 

A  BACHELOR  OF  ELEMENTS 186 

THE  MAN  WHO  STUDIED  CONTINUAL     ....   206 

Music  HATH  CHARMS 227 

THE  MOST  DETERMINEDEST  MAN 241 

THE  UPLIFTING  POWER  OF  PRIDE 254 

THE  SENTIMENTAL  Miss  TUBBS 272 

THE  MODEST  MAN 289 

THE  CONTENTEDEST  MAN  .  303 


2131075 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

From,  Drawings  b\j  Howard  Pyle,  A.  B.  Frost 
Fletcher  C.  Ransom,  and  others 

"  Old  Captain,"  he  said,  half  aloud  ....  Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


It  was  a  cold  day  when  Emerson  Tumbell  butchered  16 

The  store  turned  pale 26 

"  Humbility  is  the  fountain  of  all  virtue  "...  56 

Solomon  Holloberger  had   been  completely  crushed 

and  was  sitting  in  silence 92 

Gayly  rattling  music  from  a  mouth-organ,  with  the 

girl  busy  accompanying  him 106 

"  I  thought  some  un  might  be  looking  !  " —  .     .     .  204 

He    and    Davy    worked    by    candle-light    with    the 

Good  Book  and  the  map .218 


SIX  STARS 
THE  THIBD  AND  A  HALF  GENEEATION 

GENERATIONS  come  in  waves  in  Six 
Stars,  and  Willie  Calker  had  not  ar- 
rived in  the  natural  course  of  events,  but  had 
moved  in  from  the  neighboring  valley  with  his 
mother.  The  third  generation  had  been  but 
recently  married  off,  and  the  fourth  was  roll- 
ing over  the  rag-carpets  of  the  village.  His 
was  the  third  and  a  half.  So  he  was  alone  in 
his  boyhood.  And  in  truth  he  had  become  the 
oldest  man  for  a  lad  of  his  age  Six  Stars  had 
ever  seen,  for  worldly  wisdom  he  had  acquired 
as  he  sat  unnoticed,  unheeded,  squeezed  between 
the  worthies  of  the  store  porch;  and  a  higher 
knowledge  he  had  attained  as  day  after  day 
he  wandered  along  the  creek,  watching  the  fish 
sporting  there,  or  followed  the  tinkle  of  the 
cow-bells  through  the  hemlock  woods,  with  his 

1 


SIX  STARS 

dog  Jimmy  at  his  heels.  Through  the  long 
summer  afternoons  as  he  sat  by  the  milldam, 
idly  twirling  pebbles  into  the  placid  water,  he 
had  explored  his  own  brain;  he  had  travelled 
far  beyond  the  mountains  and  the  ridges  that 
formed  the  valley;  he  had  wandered  the  world 
over,  always  keeping  in  sight  of  the  old  stone 
mill,  and  in  sound  of  the  splashing  water- 
wheel.  Thus  he  had  conceived  an  inward  con- 
tempt for  the  three  generations  that  spent  so 
much  of  their  time  on  the  store  bench,  but  he  sat 
at  their  feet  and  absorbed  such  stray  bits  of 
wisdom  as  they  let  fall.  He  borrowed  their 
county  paper,  and  heard  the  faint  echoes  of  the 
great  world  without. 

For  a  long  time  the  store  underestimated 
Willie.  In  fact,  it  never  even  troubled  itself 
estimating  him  at  all.  He  was  nothing  but  a 
boy,  the  only  one  in  the  village,  whose  loneli- 
ness entitled  him  to  a  place  on  the  bench  as 
long  as  he  did  not  become  intrusive  with  his 
childlike  opinions  or  embarrassing  questions. 
The  store  even  tolerated  him  to  the  extent  of 
allowing  him  to  make  a  guess  on  the  weight  of 
Moses  Pole's  famed  Chester  White  hog.  It 

2 


THIRD  AND  A  HALF  GENERATION 

was  here  that  the  trouble  began.    This  was  the 
Black  Friday  in  the  history  of  Six  Stars. 

Just  two  days  before  that  particular  Friday, 
Willie  Calker  celebrated  his  twelfth  birthday, 
and  from  some  place  off  there  in  the  blue,  a 
mysterious  place  called  Kansas,  a  place  no 
more  distant  and  no  more  unreal  than  Heaven 
itself,  there  had  come  to  him  a  bright  silver 
quarter.  It  was  the  gift  of  the  grandmother 
he  had  never  seen,  and  had  it  been  brought  to 
him  in  the  bill  of  a  raven,  instead  of  in  the 
semi-weekly  mail,  he  could  not  have  been  more 
astounded.  It  took  him  two  days  to  recover 
his  astonishment,  and  then  he  began  to  cast 
about  for  something  to  do  with  it.  It  was  the 
enormousness  of  the  sum  that  overwhelmed 
hmi.  To  many  lads  of  his  age  it  would  have 
represented  no  more  than  a  jarful  of  those 
beautiful  yellow  lemon-sticks  that  adorned  the 
shelf  in  the  store.  To  Willie  Calker,  lemon- 
sticks  were  things  to  be  measured  in  pennies; 
quarters  were  the  measure  of  the  rolling  hills. 
He  had  been  lifted  above  the  candy-shelf.  He 
was  a  man  of  means.  As  became  a  man  of 
means,  he  must  stroll  to  the  store — not  with 

3 


SIX  STAKS 

an  idea  of  purchasing  mere  sweets,  but  possi- 
bly with  an  eye  on  the  building  itself. 

The  Six  Stars  store  is  a  fine  bit  of  property, 
standing  where  the  ridge  road  and  the  turnpike 
meet,  commanding  a  view  of  the  milldam,  and 
beyond  that  of  the  scrub  country  that  slopes 
away  to  the  southward,  getting  higher  and 
higher  until  it  breaks  down  into  the  great  val- 
ley, where  the  farms  are  rich  and  the  barns 
all  white  and  green.  The  boy  paused  on  the 
steps  and  looked  away  to  where  a  line  of  tree 
tops  fringed  into  the  sky.  He  thought  of  that 
valley  beyond.  He  had  had  glimpses  of  it  as  he 
stood  there  at  the  head  of  the  ridge  that  jutted 
into  it.  It  was  so  different  from  this,  his  own 
land  of  rough  woods,  and  choppings,  and  clear- 
ings and  stone-covered  farms,  that  calling  the 
Elysium  to  mind  sufficed  to  alter  any  intention 
he  had  of  making  his  friend  Smith  an  offer  for 
his  " General  Emporium."  But  he  stepped 
within,  anyway,  just  to  see  what  was  doing. 

In  spite  of  his  wealth  and  his  grand  plans, 
Willie  Calker  could  not  but  halt  before  the 
counter  and  give  a  wistful  glance  at  the  yellow 
lemon-sticks,  wishing  perhaps  that  he  was  a 

4 


THIED  AND  A  HALF  GENERATION 

boy  again  with  a  solitary  penny  to  spend  as 
his  mouth  willed,  and  not  a  man  with  a  quarter 
and  a  mind.  He  grasped  his  fortune  a  bit 
tighter  in  his  hand,  and,  as  if  to  prove  his  mas- 
tery over  self,  gazed  defiantly  at  the  alluring 
jar. 

Behind  him  sounded  the  rasping  cackle  of 
Martin  Holmes,  the  sole  surviving  representa- 
tive of  the  first  generation.  "Well,  sonny,  it 
looks  like  you'll  take  a  guess,  eh?" 

The  old  man  made  a  demonstration  with  his 
cane,  threw  back  his  head,  stuck  out  his  white 
beard  and  performed  a  short  series  of  facial 
gymnastics,  the  usual  evidences  of  his  merry 
mood.  His  gibe  was  followed  by  a  chorus  of 
guffaws  from  the  bench  and  from  the  counter, 
from  the  nail-keg  in  the  corner,  from  the  empty 
egg-crate  behind  the  stove. 

Willie  flushed.  His  eyes  moved  from  the  jar 
to  the  cigar-box  on  the  shelf  below  it,  from 
which  arose  this  placard : 


Hog  gessin  contest  on  Moses 
Poles  Chester  White  25  cents 
a  gess  Butcherin  next  wensday. 


SIX  STABS 

The  lad  wheeled  about  and  faced  the  gen- 
erations above  him. 

"Mebbe  you'd  like  two  guesses,  or 
mebbe  four,  Willie,"  said  Martin  in  his 
most  insinuating  tones.  Then  he  clapped 
a  hand  so  hard  on  the  knee  of  Lucien  Spade, 
who  sat  next  to  him,  that  the  bark-peeler 
gave  vent  to  a  cry  of  pain  that  sent 
the  store  into  paroxysms  of  laughter 
again. 

Willie's  fighting  blood  was  up.  Dreams  of 
vast  possessions  faded  away  before  the  stern 
realities  of  the  moment. 

"How  many  is  comin'  in,  Martin?"  he  asked 
in  the  deepest  tone  he  could  command,  with 
his  chest  cramped  as  it  was  in  a  three-year-old 
jacket,  and  his  throat  hampered  by  an  enormous 
woolen  muffler. 

The  old  man's  reply  was  drowned  in  a  gen- 
eral burst  of  laughter. 

"How  many  is  comin'  in?"  demanded  the 
lad  again.  But  this  time  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  bright  silver  coin  and  twirled  it  care- 
lessly about  in  his  hand. 

The  effect  was  instantaneous.  Martin 
6 


THIED  AND  A  HALF  GENERATION 

seized  his  beard  and  pulled  at  it  reflectively  as 
he  stared  at  the  boy 

Ned  Smith,  leaning  over  the  counter,  broke 
the  silence: 

"Sence  you  are  showin'  the  color  of  your 
money,  Willie,  they  is  ten  in  already — still." 

"Ten,"  said  Willie  meditatively.  "That 
means  two-fifty  if  I  win." 

"If  you  wins?"  cried  the  venerable  Holmes. 
"Well,  I'll  swan!" 

He  pointed  a  quivering  finger  at  the  diminu- 
tive, the  easy  figure  there  before  him.  Martin 
was  unrivalled  at  guessing  the  weight  of  a  hog. 
So  expert  was  he  that  it  was  an  established 
rule  that  he  should  pay  an  additional  dime  for 
the  privilege  of  competing.  No  one  knew  this 
better  than  Willie  Calker.  And  now  the  pic- 
ture of  this  chit  defying,  not  the  store,  but  him, 
Martin  Holmes,  brewed  a  storm  of  emotion, 
mingled  anger  and  merriment,  beneath  the  old 
man's  coat.  He  could  only  shake  his  finger  and 
sputter. 

"It  ain't  right,  Ned,"  broke  in  Moses  Pole. 
"It  ain't  right  fer  you  uns  to  let  him  resk  his 
money  on  no  hog  guessin'." 


"It  ain't,  it  ain't,"  chimed  in  Martin  Holmes, 
just  recovering  his  power  of  speech.  "An'  you 
knows  it,  Ned  Smith,  an'  you,  Lush  Spade,  an' 
you,  Moses  Pole.  Do  you  s'pose  I  want  to  tech 
his  money?" 

"Ned,"  said  Willie,  standing  with  his  fists 
in  his  pockets,  looking  up  into  the  storekeep- 
er's face,  ignoring  the  mingled  cries  of  ap- 
proval and  disapproval  behind  him,  "be 
Moses's  Chester  White  you  uns  mean  the  one 
that  had  his  ear  tore  off  in  the  barb-wire 
fence!" 

"Personal  friend  o'  yours,  Willie?"  old 
Holmes  put  in  cheerfully. 

"Personal  friend?"  returned  the  boy  coolly. 
"I  should  say  he  was,  Martin.  Why,  I've 
know'd  that  old  Chester  White  fer  years,  an' 
such  bein'  the  case,  I'll  take  one  guess." 

With  that  he  laid  his  fortune  on  the  counter. 

The  question  had  its  moral  side,  and,  to  do 
the  store  justice,  it  revolted  at  the  picture  of 
the  unsophisticated  boy  staking  his  money  on 
a  guess.  He  would  not  be  gambling,  of  course. 
Gambling  was  a  vice,  a  sin,  a  crime.  The 
preachers  had  always  put  particular  stress  on 

S 


THIKD  AND  A  HALF  GENERATION 

that  idea  when  they  pounded  the  pulpits  and 
hurled  forth  their  warnings  against  the  dan- 
gers of  horse-racing,  the  winecup  and  other 
such  pleasant  sins  that  the  valley,  by  reason 
of  its  remoteness  and  poverty,  had  heard  of 
but  could  never  enjoy.  Gambling  was  as- 
sociated with  cards.  Its  evils  were  presented 
pictorially  in  tracts,  showing  shirt-sleeved 
young  men  sitting  around  tables  burdened  with 
bottles  and  money.  The  store  had  never  seen 
these  same  abandoned  creatures  represented 
as  staking  fortunes  on  the  weight  of  a  hog. 
Hence  it  placed  its  loved  sport  without  the 
ban. 

So,  had  Willie  Calker  faltered  as  he  laid  his 
money  on  the  counter,  the  store  would  have 
arisen  in  one  grand  protest.  But  he  was  so 
firm,  so  quick,  so  self-possessed,  that  he  seemed 
to  take  on  for  the  moment  the  proportions  of 
a  man.  The  store  was  awed.  It  watched  him 
in  silence  as  he  picked  up  a  pencil  and  thought- 
fully, but  with  studied  care,  eyed  the  point. 
Then,  on  a  slip  of  paper,  he  scrawled  his  name 
and  the  few  figures  that  gave  his  estimate  of 
the  weight  of  Moses  Pole's  Chester  White. 

9 


SIX  STABS 

Willie  Calker  won  the  guessing.  He  was 
within  a  pound  and  a  half  of  the  actual  weight 
of  his  corpulent  four-footed  friend,  and  Martin 
Holmes,  the  peerless,  lost  by  a  pound.  His 
gibe  on  that  Black  Friday  had  cost  him  dear, 
for  now,  with  the  enormous  sum  of  two  dollars 
and  a  half  at  his  command,  the  boy  was  a  cap- 
italist, and  when  the  name  of  Aaron  Jones  ap- 
peared above  the  cigar-box,  he  ventured  two 
guesses  on  the  blacksmith's  wonderful  Jersey 
Red,  and  one  was  within  three  pounds  of  the 
actual  weight.  Martin  Holmes  was  short  by 
ten.  This  was  in  itself  most  remarkable,  for 
in  years  he  had  not  put  in  figures  so  far  wrong. 
In  fact,  he  had  had  the  game  down  to  so  fine  a 
point  as  to  disdain  to  call  it  guessing  at  all. 
He  always  referred  to  it  as  "estymatinV 
The  result  on  the  Chester  White  unnerved  him. 
That  on  the  Jersey  Red  routed  him.  When  the 
sign  was  hoisted  for  McMitt's  Berkshire,  Mar- 
tin boldly  demanded  the  abrogation  of  the  rule 
that  he  pay  an  extra  dime  to  enter  the  contest. 
This  was  a  great  humiliation  for  the  poor  man. 
It  was  as  though  he  were  turning  over  the 
crown  and  sceptre  before  his  time.  It  was  an 

10 


THIED  AND  A  HALF  GENERATION 

admission  of  defeat,  a  succumbing  to  the  forces 
of  decay.  He,  the  first  generation,  was  broken, 
and  in  his  place  was  rising,  not  the  second,  as 
in  the  natural  course  of  events,  nor  even  the 
third,  but  the  third  and  a  half — that  mere  sprig 
of  a  boy  who  had  never  done  anything  but  moon 
around  the  dam  and  the  woods.  The  old  man 
tried  to  pass  it  by  as  a  "good  un"  on  him,  but 
the  store  saw  through  his  forced  jollity  as  he 
paid  the  regular  quarter  for  the  first  time  in 
years  and  handed  in  his  "estymayte"  on  the 
Berkshire. 

Willie  Calker  had  taken  four  guesses,  and 
again  he  won.  Martin  knew  that  he  would. 
And  so  did  Moses  Pole.  For  three  days  preced- 
ing the  butchering  the  pair  had  sat  together  on 
the  bench,  gloomily  watching  the  box  and  de- 
claring that  it  wasn't  any  use.  Moses  was  in- 
clined to  think  that  the  boy  was  not  playing 
fair,  but  was  using  a  charm.  In  this  theory 
he  had  no  support.  Martin  declared  that  there 
was  nothing  in  superstition  anyway,  except- 
ing as  far  as  it  affected  rheumatism.  But  the 
store  now  felt  that  for  the  preservation  of  the 
sport  something  should  be  done.  The  grum- 

11 


SIX  STAES 

bling  became  more  general  and  open  when  the 
boy  took  six  guesses  on  Solomon  Holloberger's 
black  runt  and  won.  When  he  bought  eight 
chances  on  the  Killowills'  Poland  China,  and 
with  one  came  within  nine  ounces  of  the  actual 
weight,  the  store  arose  in  revolt.  This  lad  had 
no  family  to  support,  and  there  was  no  limit 
to  his  ability  to  guess.  The  welfare  of  the  na- 
tion demanded  prompt  action,  for  not  only  the 
money  of  the  valley,  but  of  the  county  and  the 
country  was  draining  into  this  mere  child's 
pockets. 

The  store  did  act.  This  was  when  Emerson 
Tumbell  set  the  date  for  the  killing  of  his  won- 
derful hog  that  for  two  months  had  hardly  been 
able  to  stagger  about  under  its  burden  of  roll- 
ing fat.  Twice  had  Willie  slipped  up  to  Emer- 
son's farm  to  inspect  the  beast.  So  his  disap- 
pointment was  keen  when  he  went  to  deposit 
his  guesses  and  saw  added  to  the  usual  notice 
above  the  cigar-box  the  words,  "Barrin'  Willie 
Calker." 

"Barrin'  me,"  he  repeated  slowly.  Then, 
turning  to  Martin  Holmes,  he  asked:  "What 
does  that  mean!" 

12 


THIRD  AND  A  HALF.  GENERATION 

"It  means,  sonny,"  said  the  old  man  with 
much  gravity,  "that  Emerson  butchers  a  Mon- 
day, an'  that  guesses  will  be  received  as  usual, 
barrin'  Willie  Calker.  Willie  is  too  young, 
sonny.  It  ain't  right  fer  us  folks  to  let  a  boy 
o'  his  tender  years  resk  his  money." 

"Is  that  true,  Ned?"  asked  the  lad,  appeal- 
ing to  the  storekeeper,  who  was  leaning  over 
the  counter,  an  amused  smile  on  his  face.  Ned 
Smith  nodded  in  the  affirmative  and  smiled  the 
more. 

Without  another  word  Willie  Calker  strode 
to  the  door  and  down  the  road.  At  the  mill- 
dam  he  paused  a  moment  to  send  a  flat  stone 
hurtling  along  the  water.  Then  he  crossed  on 
the  foot-log  to  his  favorite  retreat  behind  the 
mill,  where,  in  seclusion,  soothed  by  the  swishing 
of  the  water  over  the  wheel  and  the  rumble  of 
the  grinding  stones,  he  could  think  it  all  over. 
But  hardly  had  he  seated  himself  on  a  log  when 
the  venerable  Holmes  confronted  him. 

"Willie,"  said  the  old  man  soothingly. 

"Well,"  returned  the  boy  in  frigid  tones. 

"Ye  ain't  mad,  are  ye?"  the  other  asked 
softly. 

13 


SIX  STARS 

"Course  I  ain't.  But  you  did  it,  you  know 
you  did,"  snapped  the  lad. 

"Now,  sonny,  don't  be  hard  on  me.  It  was 
fer  your  good,  really,"  pleaded  Martin,  seat- 
ing himself  on  the  log.  "But,  say,  Willie,  you 
might  jest  tell  me  somethin'." 

' '  Tell  you  what  ? ' '  snapped  the  boy. 

"What  does  you  allow  that  there  Berkshire 
of  Emerson  Tumbell's  weighs?" 

1 1  Martin,  you  shut  me  out,  you  know  you  did, 
didn't  ye!" 

"I  didn't,  sonny,  really  I  didn't,"  answered 
he  of  the  first  generation.  "I  had  a  woice  in 
the  matter,  I  admit,  but  whatever  I  done  was 
fer  your  sake,  Willie.  Gamblin'  is  a  terrible 
wice. ' ' 

" Gamblin ',"  retorted  Willie.  "This  ain't 
gamblin',  Martin.  This  is  only  hog  guessin'. 
Why,  I've  heard  you  say  a  hundred  times  that 
they  was  different. ' ' 

The  old  man  raised  a  finger  in  warning. 
"Ssh!"  He  smiled  knowingly.  "You  know, 
Willie,  what  I  meant.  You  an '  me  understands 
one  another,  don't  we?  We  are  just  about  the 
smartest  two  in  town — you  an'  me.  Of  course 

14 


THIRD  AND  A  HALF  GENEEATION 

it 's  gamblin '.  Gamblin  's  a  wice.  Them  fellers  at 
the  store  don't  know  it,  an'  I  ain't  the  boy  to 
spile  their  fun.  You  knows  that — hey,  sonny — 
you  knows  that.  Now,  what  does  you  cal'late 
that  hog  o'  Emerson's " 

"But,  Martin,  if  it  is  a  vice  as  you  says,  why 
should  I  tell  you  how  many  pound  that  animal 
weighs?  Ain't  that  encouragin'  you  to  do 
wrong?" 

"There  you  go  agin,"  said  the  old  man,  lay- 
ing a  horny  hand  on  the  small  knee  that  was 
knocking  against  his  own  boots.  "It's  this 
'ay,  Willie.  Gamblin'  is  a  wice.  It  biteth  like 
an  adder;  it  stingeth  like  a  serpent.  Oncet  it 
gits  its  grip  on  you  it  don't  let  go.  It  ruins 
your  life.  An',  Willie,  it " 

"But,  Martin " 

"Wait  a  bit  an'  hear  me  out.  It  ruins  your 
life.  It  sappeth  at  the  blood  an'  you  are  young 
yet,  my  boy,  an'  I  couldn't  see  the  wice  gittin' 
its  deadly  holt  on  you.  Fer  me  it  ain't  so  bad, 
fer  my  summer-time  is  gone.  I've  only  a  few 
year  left  to  spile.  Now,  what  does  you 

guess "  Martin  stopped  abruptly  and  drew 

a  quarter  from  his  pocket.  He  looked  at  it 

15 


SIX  STABS 

steadfastly  for  a  minute.  Then  he  smiled  at 
Willie. 

"Now,  what  does  you  guess  will  be  the 
weight  of  Emerson's  killin'!"  he  asked  again. 

The  boy  closed  his  eyes  and  held  out  a  hand. 

"I  guess — I  guess — I  guess,"  he  repeated 
slowly.  His  fingers  tightened  on  the  coin.  "I 
guess  five  hundred  an'  eleven  pound  an'  seven 
ounces,"  he  said  quickly. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  rather  wist- 
fully at  the  old  man.  Martin  says  now  that 
he  winked  at  him. 

It  was  a  cold  day  when  Emerson  Tumbell 
butchered.  His  place  is  full  three  miles  above 
the  store  on  the  cross-road  that  leaves  the  pike 
just  beyond  the  covered  bridge.  Every  farm 
in  his  neighborhood  sent  a  delegation  to  wit- 
ness the  execution  of  the  ponderous  Berkshire, 
but  Six  Stars  contented  itself  with  a  single 
emissary.  Aaron  Jones  volunteered  to  ride  up 
there  on  his  white  mule  about  noon,  though  it 
was  a  gray,  melancholy  morning,  with  a  prom- 
ise of  snow  in  the  clouds  overhead,  and  the 
average  man  would  have  preferred  the  warmth 
of  the  store  stove.  Aaron  was  always  accom- 

16 


Drawn  by  Albert  Levering-. 

It  was  a  cold  day  when  Emerson  Tumbell  butchered. 


THIED  AND  A  HALF  GENERATION" 

modating.  The  boys  were  anxious  to  get  the 
news,  and  he  was  anxious  to  please  the  boys. 
But  besides  this  he  had  an  interest  in  the  cigar- 
box.  He  had  even  boasted  his  confidence  that 
the  entire  contents  would  find  their  way  into 
his  pockets.  He  had  dreamed  a  dream,  and  in 
his  sleep  the  actual  weight  of  Emerson  Tum- 
bell's  Berkshire  had  been  revealed  to  him. 
Then  the  blacksmith  had  chuckled  to  himself 
and  winked  at  the  ceiling. 

The  group  on  the  store  porch  watched  the 
white  mule  and  its  rider  until  they  were  lost 
to  sight  in  the  gloom  of  the  bridge;  then  they 
moved  inside,  and  in  silence  watched  the  clock. 
When  the  hands  pointed  the  noon  hour,  the 
whole  company  shuffled  out  to  the  old  point  of 
vantage  and  strained  their  eyes  up  the  pike. 
It  was  not  long  until  the  white  mule  hove  into 
view  again.  He  was  not  really  going  at  break- 
neck speed,  but  he  did  trot,  so  Aaron 
was  bumping  violently  up  and  down,  a  rein  in 
each  hand,  his  elbows  flapping  like  wings.  The 
store  lined  up  to  receive  him  as  he  drew  up  and 
turned  half  around  in  the  saddle  and  faced 
them.  There  was  an  expectant  silence,  in 


SIX  STARS 

which  the  courier  laid  one  hand  on  his  chest 
and  caught  his  lost  breath.    Then  he  smiled. 

"Ye  can't  beat  me,  boys,"  he  gasped,  "I'm 
within  seven  ounces." 

Ten  faces  fell.  Ten  hands  went  to  ten  chins 
to  stroke  them  sadly. 

"I  told  you  I  drumpt  it  true,"  cried  Aaron, 
his  voice  now  ringing  clear  and  triumphant. 
"You  uns  laughed  at  my  dream,  but  I  got  with- 
in seven  ounces." 

"What's  the — eh — weight?"  ventured  Mar- 
tin Holmes,  after  a  moment  of  silence  in  the 
company. 

"Five  hundred  an'  eleven  pound  even," 
cried  Aaron.  He  was  half  out  of  the  saddle, 
and  waved  one  long,  booted  leg  in  the  face  of 
the  store.  It  was  defiance  he  expressed  thus, 
for  as  he  reached  the  ground  he  shouted:  "I 
guessed  five  hundred  an'  eleven  pound,  seven 
ounces.  You  uns  can't  beat  it." 

"I  allow  we  can't,  Aaron,"  Martin  Holmes 
exclaimed,  with  a  sudden,  cheery  ring  in  his 
voice.  "But  I  think  we'll  have  to  dewide,  me 
an'  you,  fer  I  guessed  five  hundred  an'  eleven 
pound,  seven  ounces,  too." 

18 


THIKD  AND  A  HALF  GENERATION 

"Well,  I'll  swan!"  broke  in  Moses  Pole.  "So 
did  I.  That  was  my  estymayte — five  hundred 
an'  eleven  pound,  seven  ounces." 

"See  here,  Moses,  you  stop  your  joshin'," 
cried  Martin  angrily.  "This  is  no  time  fer 
joshin.  V*  The  old  man  saw  that  several  others 
wanted  to  speak,  but  he  silenced  them  by  rais- 
ing a  warning  hand.  "It  ain't  regular,"  he 
exclaimed.  "Open  the  box,  an'  then  we'll  see 
how  much  we  dewide." 

So  he  led  the  company  into  the  store. 

"It's  be  fur  the  best  estyrnaytin'  I  ever 
done,"  he  said,  as  Smith  was  unfolding  the 
paper  slips  on  the  counter.  "It's  wonderful 
guessin',  an'  I  don't  propose  havin'  the  laurels 
drug  offen  me  brow  be  no  jolliers  like  Aaron 
or  Moses  there." 

"Nor  me,"  spoke  up  Lucien  Spade  from  the 
outskirts  of  the  crowd.  "I  guessed  five  hun- 
dred an'  eleven  pound,  seven " 

Martin  laughed. 

"Boys — boys,  no  joshin'.  It  ain't  regular," 
he  cried,  with  a  genial  wave  of  his  thin  old 
arms. 

"But  I  did  guess  five  hundred  an'  eleven 
19 


SIX  STAES 

pound,   seven   ounces,"   shouted  McMitt,   the 
miller. 

"Hoi*  on — hoi*  on,"  protested  Martin,  still 
more  genially.  "I  don't  mind  a  joke,  Aleck, 
but  wait  till  Smith  gets  th'oo  openin'  the 
guesses.  Then  we'll  see  who  it's  on." 

It  did  not  take  long  to  find  this  out.  When 
the  storekeeper  had  transposed  the  figures  to 
a  long  slip  of  paper,  he  eyed  them  quizzically 
for  what  seemed  an  age  to  the  men  before  him. 

"It's  re-markable,"  he  said  at  last. 

"It  was  most  a  mighty  good  estymayte — only 
seven  ounces  off,"  chuckled  old  Holmes. 

"Emerson's  hog  weighs  five  hundred  an' 
eleven  pound,"  said  the  storekeeper,  rapping 
for  order. 

There  was  a  strained  silence. 

"There  are  thirteen  guesses,  an'  every  man 
estymaytes  the  weight  at  five  hundred  an' 
eleven  pound,  seven  ounces.  Such  bein'  the 
case,  we  all  git  a  quarter  apiece." 

"But  that's  all  we  paid  in,"  Moses  Pole  pro- 
tested. 

Some  one  cried:  "Willie  Calker — where 's 
Willie  Calker?" 

20 


THIKD  AND  A  HALF.  GENERATION 

It  was  a  reckless  thing  to  do.  There  was  a 
sudden  hush  over  the  company.  The  men 
looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  not  one  said 
a  word. 

A  moment  passed,  and  Martin  Holmes 
forced  his  way  through  the  crowd  that  pressed 
about  him,  and  went  out  on  the  porch,  slam- 
ming the  door  behind  him  as  a  sign  that  he 
wished  to  be  alone.  For  a  long  time  he  was 
alone,  leaning  against  a  pillar,  watching  the 
lazy  ripples  on  the  milldam.  Had  it  been  a 
bright  day,  the  old  man  might  have  at  least 
grinned  a  bit  over  his  defeat  and  the  defeat  of 
the  whole  store  company.  But  he  could  hear 
the  splash  of  the  water  over  the  millwheel,  and 
it  was  cold  and  cheerless  music.  All  around 
him  the  dry  bones  of  the  year  were  rattling — 
in  the  limbs  that  crackled  under  the  brisk  wind, 
in  the  leaves  that  bowled  along  the  hard  road, 
in  the  whir  of  the  few  songless  birds  that  shot 
to  and  fro.  A  half-score  of  sheep  were  hud- 
dled in  the  protection  of  the  blacksmith  shop, 
baaing  to  keep  warm.  The  valley  was  in  no 
mood  to  cheer  him  up. 

Suddenly  a  sharp  report  rang  down  the  slope 
21 


SIX  STABS 

from  the  woods.  He  looked  up  quickly.  Again 
he  heard  it,  and  still  again. 

" Who's  a-shootin'  up  there  on  the  ridge, 
Earl?"  he  called  to  one  of  the  fourth  gener- 
ation who  chanced  to  be  passing  in  pursuit  of 
a  flock  of  geese. 

The  lad  halted  and  pulled  his  muffler  down 
from  his  mouth. 

"Willie  Calker,"  he  cried.  "He  has  got  a 
new  revoliver." 

"Mighty  souls!"  said  Martin  Holmes. 


22 


THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEY, 

THEN  I  ups  with  the  gun,"  said  Harvey 
Homer.  Suiting  the  action  to  the  word, 
he  lifted  the  butt  of  the  ancient  piece  to  his 
shoulder,  aiming  right  at  Amos  Inklin's  head. 
The  drover  dodged  hastily,  seeking  the  protec- 
tion of  the  big  egg-stove. 

"Hold  on  there!"  he  shouted  "Mebbe  it's 
leadened." 

Harvey  dropped  the  butt  to  the  floor  with 
great  deliberation.  "As  I  was  saying  when 
you  interrupted  me,  I  ups  with  the  gun 
an' 

"Now,  see  here,  Harvey,"  cried  Amos  an- 
grily, "if  you  are  goin'  to  ups  with  it  agin,  I 
want  to  know  if  it's  leadened.  This  store  ain't 
Laurel  Ridge,  an'  my  head  ain't  a  coon." 

"Is — it — leadened,  Harvey?"  said  old  Mar- 
tin Holmes,  laying  a  hand  on  Homer's  knee  and 
wiggling  his  leg  at  every  word.  "My  pap's 
first  cousin  was  kilt  be  an  absent-minded  man 

23 


SIX  STABS 

illustratined  how  lie  shot  a  wild-cat.  Is — it — 
leadened!" 

"I  forget,"  replied  the  hunter  testily.  "Do 
you  fellers  think  I  can  mind  every  time  I  shoot 
it?"  He  paused  a  moment  and  laid  his  fore- 
finger thoughtfully  between  his  eyes.  "I  al- 
low it  is  loadened,  but  jest  to  make  sure " 

He  drew  the  hickory  ramrod  from  its  home  and 
sent  it  rattling  down  the  barrel.  It  came  to  a 
stop  with  a  thud,  and  he  shut  one  eye  and  crit- 
ically inspected  the  protruding  end  of  the 
stick.  "It — is — loadened,"  he  cried  trium- 
phantly. 

From  behind  the  counter  Ned  Smith,  the 
storekeeper,  broke  in  with  a  gentle  protest. 
"We  don't  mind  you  uns  tellin'  us  about  shoot- 
in',  but  mebbe  before  you  go  pintin'  around 
that  'ay  it  *ud  be  sensible  to  unloaden  it." 

"There's  two  fingers  o'  powder,  two  buck 
an'  a  ball  in  there,"  cried  the  hunter  angrily, 
shaking  the  rifle.  "That's  what  you'd  have 
me  go  waste.  You  uns  talk  like  a  gun  hadn't 
no  sense.  Besides,  there  ain't  no  cap,  an' " 

"Now,  Harvey,  now,  Harvey,"  said  Martin 
Holmes  gently.  "Don't  get  all  het  up.  I  never 

24 


THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEY 

seen  a  gun  yit  as  was  overgifted  with  brains. 
A  rifle  is  fickler  than  a  woman;  you  otter  know 
that,  Harvey.  You  otter  know  that  the  less  wad- 
din'  you  has  pertectin'  you,  the  harder  she 
kicks.  An'  if  the  average  well-balanced  mus- 
ket gits  it  inter  its  head  it's  goin'  to  go  off, 
off  it'll  go,  whether  it  has  a  cap  on  or  not;  you 
otter  know  that,  Harvey." 

Harvey  did  not  know  it.  He  did  not  care. 
He  did  not  need  any  information  about  guns. 
But  if  the  store  was  full  of  fellows  who  had  no 
trust  in  a  rifle  that  had  gone  fifty  years  with- 
out harming  no  one,  then  he  allowed  that  he 
supposed  it  would  be  best  to  unloaden  it.  He 
hurled  this  forth  as  he  shuffled  to  the  door. 
The  store  followed  him,  old  Holmes  bringing 
up  in  the  rear,  with  a  finger  carefully  tucked 
in  each  ear. 

Standing  on  the  porch,  Homer  gave  one  con- 
temptuous glance  at  the  little  knot  of  men  be- 
hind him,  and,  taking  careless  aim  at  a  gray 
cloud  that  was  hovering  away  off  in  the  dis- 
tance, fired. 

There  was  a  loud  squawking  of  chickens  and 
a  flutter  of  wings;  a  series  of  wild  squeals  by 

25 


SIX  STABS 

the  mill,  where  a  few  hogs  had  been  huddled 
in  the  sun;  a  chorus  of  ba-a-s,  as  a  flock  of 
sheep  rushed  down  the  road  and  made  the 
bridge  by  the  blacksmith  shop  ring  with  their 
hoofs.  This  was  to  be  expected,  for  it  always 
followed  any  startling  sound  in  Six  Stars. 
The  unexpected  was  a  human  cry  of  dismay 
and  then  a  groan  that  arose  from  a  light  blue 
heap  in  the  road,  just  beneath  the  smoking  muz- 
zle. The  store  turned  pale.  The  light  blue 
heap  took  form,  and  the  men  on  the  porch 
breathed  easier,  for  now,  erect  before  them, 
his  old  army  overcoat  gray  with  dust,  his  out- 
stretched hands  holding  a  bicycle,  which  he  was 
critically  inspecting,  stood  Aaron  Kallaberger. 
He  sent  the  wheels  spinning  around,  and,  hav- 
ing satisfied  himself  that  the  machine  was  not 
damaged,  he  smiled. 

"I  tho't  it  was  Sumter,"  he  said. 

Though  Aaron  Kallaberger  did  not  take  part 
in  the  defence  of  that  famous  fortress,  as 
might  be  implied  from  this  remark,  his  nine 
months*  service  in  the  Civil  War,  all  in  the 
hospital,  had  cast  a  heroic  glamour  over  his 
whole  life,  and,  with  a  pension  added  and  an 

26 


The  store  turned  pale. 


THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEY 

army  overcoat,  he  was  well  entitled  to  use  mar- 
tial terms.  But  Harvey  did  not  like  it. 

"Did  you  allus  tumble  over  like  that  when 
they  was  any  shootin  ' ?' '  he  cried  angrily.  *  *  A- 
screechin',  an'  a-groanin',  an'  a-scarin'  the  en- 
emy to  death,  thinkin'  they'd  killed  ye." 

"I  never  rode  under  a  cannon  before,"  re- 
plied Aaron  pleasantly. 

"A  cannon!"  The  very  suggestion  was  so 
extravagant  to  Harvey  that  he  laughed. 
"Why,  this  here  is  the  best  gun  in  Pennsyl- 
wany.  Look  at  it,  Aaron!  Handle  it — mind 
the  copper  patch  on  the  stock — see  how  easy 
the  trigger  pulls — an'  that  there  ramrod — 
toughest  hickory  in  the  walley,  an'  whittled  out 
by  my  old  grandpap."  He  thrust  the  barrel 
into  the  hands  of  the  veteran,  who  had  propped 
himself  against  the  bicycle  and  received  the 
piece  rather  gingerly.  "A  cannon!  Why,  if 
my  pap  heard  you  say  that  he'd  turn  in  his 
grave.  Grandpap  got  it  first,  an'  they  allus 
sayd  he  carried  it  in  the  Revolution — look 
there — you  can  see  where  it  was  a  flintlock. 
Pap  changed  it  fer  caps.  There's  a  placet  in 
the  stock  to  keep  bullets  an'  patches — all  the 

27 


SIX  STARS 

modern  conveniences,  you  sec,  with  the  ex- 
perience of  age.  Jest  take  a  sight  with  her, 
Aaron,  an'  mind  how  light  she  is." 

The  veteran  lifted  the  heavy  gun  and  aimed 
it.  In  the  delight  of  sighting  down  the  long 
barrel  at  a  new  white  shingle  on  the  roof 
of  the  mill,  he  straightened  up  and  the  bicycle 
toppled  over.  Harvey  scrambled  to  pick  it  up. 
That  was  a  fatal  move  to  him,  for  a  wheel 
spun  around  with  a  musical  purr,  scattering 
silvery  shafts  of  light. 

"Mighty,  but  it  goes  easy,"  he  cried. 
"Where  did  you  git  it,  Aaron?" 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  hit  that  chicken  if  this 
here  was  loadened?"  replied  Kallaberger, 
swinging  the  rifle  around  and  bringing  it  to 
bear  on  a  hen  resting  on  a  near-by  fence. 

"How  fur  will  this  here  travel?"  inquired 
Harvey,  a  little  louder. 

"Sights,  but  it  feels  good!"  the  veteran  an- 
swered, aiming  at  a  cloud.  "I  ain't  had  a  mus- 
ket of  me  own  since  the  war — got  out  of  the 
habit.  What  you  bet  I  couldn't  take  the  weath- 
er wane  off  en  Inklin's  house  yanderl" 

"How  much  did  you  give  fer  this  here?" 
28 


THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEYi 

cried  Harvey,  laying  a  restraining  hand  on  the 
other's  arm. 

"For  what — oh,  that,"  said  Aaron,  with  a 
contemptuous  glance  at  the  machine.  "I  al- 
most give  me  life  fer  it  a  couple  of  times.  As 
it  was,  I  traded  with  young  Harvey  Whoople 
fer  ten  dollars,  a  churn,  an'  two  augers." 

Harvey's  eyes  opened  wide  in  amazement. 
"They  is  expensive,  ain't  they?"  he  said 
meekly. 

He  was  disappointed.  The  bicycle  was  in  his 
hands,  and  he  wanted  it.  He  had  read  about 
these  machines  in  the  paper;  a  few  times  he 
had  seen  strangely  garbed  men  from  the  county- 
town  flying  along  the  turnpike  on  them;  but 
to  him  they  had  seemed  as  difficult  to  attain  as 
wings.  Now  he  held  one  in  his  hands ;  he  knew 
a  man  who  could  ride  one;  he  had  heard  the 
musical  purr  of  the  wheels  and  gazed  into  the 
hypnotic  light  of  the  spokes.  It  did  not  seem 
so  unattainable,  yet  the  price  was  beyond  him. 
The  churn  and  two  augers  he  could  give,  but 
ten  dollars 

"What  '11  you  take  fer  this  here  rifle,  Har- 
vey?" Aaron  asked,  aiming  at  the  head  of  a 

29 


SIX  STARS 

sheep  that  was  standing  on  the  bridge  blink- 
ing at  the  sun. 

"I'll  trade  even,"  Harvey  replied.  He 
pointed  to  the  bicycle,  but  he  was  so  amazed 
at  his  audacity  that  his  voice  broke  and  he  had 
to  cough. 

Kallaberger  laughed. 

"Even!"  he  shouted.  "Mighty,  man,  talk 
sense — ten  dollars  an'  the  gun — how's  that  fer  a 
bargain  ? ' ' 

"Yon  is  the  best  gun  in  the  walley,"  Homer 
answered  with  spirit.  "My  own  grandpap 
whittled  that  ramrod." 

But  Kallaberger  was  without  sentiment.  He 
insisted  on  fixing  the  value  of  the  rifle  on  the 
basis  of  its  present  usefulness,  entirely  elimi- 
nating family  tradition.  And  Aaron  was  a 
clever  man,  for  he  stood  by  in  contemptuous 
silence  while  Harvey  spun  the  wheels  again 
for  a  very  long  time.  Then  he  made  a  new 
proposition. 

"I've  heard  tell  a  heap  about  your  spring- 
bed,  Harvey,"  he  said.  "Now,  what  'ud  you 
uns  say  to  bicycle  fer  gun  an'  spring-bed. 
You  haven't  no  use  fer  a  spring-bed." 

30 


THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEY 

"It's  most  a 'mighty  comf -table  sleepin'," 
returned  Harvey  feebly. 

"But  when  you're  asleep  you  don't  know 
whether  you're  comf  table  or  not/'  the  vet- 
eran argued  with  much  spirit.  "If  you  are 
sleepin'  you  are  unkawnscious.  Fer  an  un- 
kawnscious  man  a  straw  tick  is  as  good  as  two 
springs." 

"There  is  some  thin'  in  that,"  the  other  as- 
sented. He  tried  for  a  moment  to  recall  a  time 
when  the  spring-mattress  had  added  to  his 
comfort.  He  could  not,  for  he  had  slept  just 
as  soundly  before  he  got  it.  Sleep  always  came 
to  him  when  his  head  touched  a  pillow,  and 
the  only  real  pleasure  he  had  derived  from  his 
recent  investment  was  in  telling  the  others  at 
the  store  what  a  luxurious  thing  it  was. 

Again  he  spun  the  wheels,  and  they  won  the 
argument.  Family  tradition  was  forgotten. 
Grandpap  whittling  the  hickory  ramrod  was 
forgotten.  Pap's  pride  in  the  best  gun  in  the 
valley  was  forgotten. 

"It's  a  bargain,  Aaron,"  the  young  man 
said. 

Harvey  Homer  slept  that  night  on  his  old 
31 


SIX  STAES 

corn-shuck  mattress.  He  had  pulled  it  down 
from  the  loft  of  his  little  log-house  after  Kal- 
laberger  had  driven  away  with  the  springs 
lashed  to  his  buckboard,  and  Harvey  did  not 
regret  his  bargain,  for  he  sat  up  late,  spinning 
the  wheels  and  pointing  out  to  his  hound,  Colo- 
nel, the  interesting  parts  of  the  mechanism. 
He  had  even  tried  mounting  and  dismounting 
in  the  narrow  limits  of  his  kitchen,  so  that  it 
was  a  weary  head  that  touched  the  pillow,  and 
he  was  soon  unconscious  to  the  discomfort  of 
the  corn  shucks.  As  if  in  proof  of  his  theory, 
he  slept  unusually  late  the  next  morning,  and 
it  was  broad  daylight  when  he  arose. 

First  he  awakened  the  fire  in  the  ten-plate 
stove,  and,  when  it  was  roaring  lustily,  he 
turned  to  take  the  measure  of  the  day.  The 
valley  was  white  with  the  first  snow  of  the 
year.  It  had  crept  up  in  the  night  and  covered 
the  shrivelled  fields,  transforming  the  gaunt 
trees  into  giant  finger-corals,  pitching  rank  on 
rank  of  tall,  white  tents  at  the  head  of  the 
slope,  where  yesterday  had  been  an  expanse  of 
stunted  pines.  The  man  at  the  window,  peer- 
ing through  the  frosted  glass,  had  seen  too 

32 


THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEY 

many  winters  come  to  waste  a  glance  on  the 
fences,  once  so  broken,  so  brown  and  decrepit, 
now  a  delicate  network,  stretching  to  and  fro 
over  the  valley,  and  glittering  in  the  sun  that 
was  just  rising  above  the  eastward  ridges.  He 
was  looking  away  to  the  woods,  and  what  held 
his  gaze  was  not  the  tall  white  tents  there,  but 
three  small  black  objects  moving  across  the 
clearing.  Long  and  earnestly  he  watched  them 
as  they  went,  single  file,  over  the  field  and  were 
again  lost  in  the  cover. 

"Turkeys,  Colonel!"  Harvey  cried.  "Wild 
turkeys." 

This  announcement  made  the  hound  wriggle 
all  over,  and  he  raised  himself  against  the  win- 
dow, and,  with  his  warm  nose,  tried  to  rub 
away  the  frost,  that  he  too  might  see  what  was 
doing. 

"Breakfast  first,  Colonel,"  said  Harvey 
gayly,  patting  the  dog's  head.  "Breakfast,  an' 
then " 

He  paused  abruptly.  His  gaze  was  fixed  in 
the  corner,  where  the  gun  had  leaned  so  long. 

"An'  then — an'  then "  He  rubbed  his 

eyes  to  make  sure  of  them.  "Why,  Colonel,  I 

33 


SIX  STAES 

never  tho't  o'  you  when  I  done  it.  You  can't 
ride  a  bicycle,  can  you?" 

The  hound  ran  to  the  door,  and  began  to 
sniff  at  the  knob  and  whine.  Then  he  turned 
to  the  corner  where  the  rifle  should  have  been, 
and,  sitting  on  his  haunches,  threw  back  his 
head  and  gave  a  long  howl. 

"It's  the  redicklestest  thing  I  ever  done," 
said  Harvey  mournfully.  '"I  don't  blame  you 
a  bit,  Colonel.  Why,  had  I  stopped  an'  tho't  o' 
you,  I  wouldn't  'a'  swapped  that  gun  fer  ten 
bicycles. ' ' 

Still  more  was  the  full  meaning  of  his  bar- 
gain impressed  on  him,  for,  as  he  stepped  out- 
side after  breakfast,  bound  for  the  barn  to 
care  for  his  horses  and  his  cow,  he  sank  to  his 
boot-tops  in  a  snowdrift.  The  hound  floun- 
dered after  him,  and,  not  ten  steps  from  the 
door,  they  crossed  the  trail  of  a  fox,  where  the 
wind,  broken  by  the  house,  had  failed  to  cover 
the  tracks.  Then  a  rabbit  darted  from  a  brush 
pile  and  scampered  away  over  the  fields.  The 
hound  went  pitching  after  it,  but,  pausing  at 
the  crest  of  the  hill,  he  looked  back  to  see  his 
master  standing  helplessly  at  the  barn-yard 

34 


THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEY 

gate,  so  he  turned  and  went  disconsolately 
home. 

"It's  no  use,  Colonel,"  Harvey  said,  hardly 
daring  to  meet  the  inquiring  gaze  of  his  dumb 
companion.  "We  might  jest  as  well  set  down 
patient-like  an'  wait  till  the  winter  goes.  Meb- 
be  we  can  make  up  fer  it  be  goin'  bicyclin';  but 
jest  now,  I  s'pose,  we'll  be  overrun  with  game 
— me  an'  you — smothered  under  patridges  an' 
foxes  an'  sech.  Why,  when  you  was  gone  I 
was  looking  fer  some  bears,  or  mebbe  a  tagger 
or  an  ellyphant  or  so  to  come  a-moseyin'  round 
here  any  minute.  I  allow  we'd  better  keep  in 
doors,  me  an'  you,  an'  read  the  almenick." 

The  hours  moved  very  slowly  that  morning. 
The  bicycle  wheels  had  lost  their  fascination 
for  Harvey,  and  he  found  small  comfort  in  get- 
ting out  his  fishing  tackle  for  an  overhauling. 
It  seemed  so  foolish  to  work  over  hooks  and 
lines  that  could  not  be  used  for  months.  To 
make  it  more  humiliating,  Irving  Kallaberger 
opened  the  door,  without  the  formality  of  a 
knock,  and  surprised  him  at  this  humble  occu- 
pation. Harvey  apologized,  and  started  to 
explain,  but  Irving  cut  him  short,  and,  in  that 

35 


SIX  STABS 

polished  way  that  has  made  his  family  famous 
in  the  valley,  assured  him  that  it  was  most  sen- 
sible to  prepare  in  early  December  for  fishing 
in  late  April.  With  this  the  visitor  removed 
his  overcoat  and  muffler  and  took  a  chair  by 
the  stove.  He  had  his  fiddle  with  him,  and  was 
bound  for  the  Hockewouts'  place.  The  Hocke- 
wouts  were  giving  a  dance  that  night,  and  he 
was  going  to  play.  It  is  a  good  five  miles  there 
from  Six  Stars,  and  though  Harvey's  was  but 
one-fifth  of  the  way,  he  had  decided  to  drop  in 
and  rest  up  and  warm. 

Harvey  suggested  a  tune,  and,  going  to  the 
door,  called  Colonel  in  to  hear  it.  Irving  gra- 
ciously acceded  to  the  request,  and,  taking  his 
violin  from  the  paper  flour-bag,  began  to  play. 
Under  the  spell  of  the  music,  Harvey  Homer 
forgot  the  lost  rifle  and  the  mocking  game,  and 
leaned  back  on  two  legs  of  his  chair,  beat  time 
with  his  feet,  and  half  hummed  and  half  sang 
to  the  tune  of  "  The  Old  Gray  Horse  that  Died  in 
the  Wilderness."  By  his  side  the  hound  sat 
on  his  haunches,  his  tail  free  to  pound  the  floor 
rhythmically,  his  head  thrown  back  and  his 
eyes  fixed  in  ecstacy  on  the  ceiling.  Once  he 

36 


THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEY, 

gave  vent  to  a  long-drawn  howl,  but  a  sharp 
stroke  of  his  master's  hand  suppressed  him, 
so  that  thereafter  he  contented  himself  with  a 
series  of  gurgling  wails.  For  a  half  hour 
Irving  played,  twice  repeating  his  repertory, 
from  "The  Old  Gray  Horse"  to  "The  Devil's 
Dream,"  and  he  was  about  to  start  on  a  third 
round,  when  Harvey  interrupted  him  by  shuf- 
fling his  feet. 

"They  is  a  heap  o'  consolation  in  a  fiddle, 
ain't  they?"  he  said. 

"I  jest  wish  I  had  nothin'  else  to  do,"  re- 
plied Irving,  with  enthusiasm.  "A  man  with 
a  fiddle  is  never  lonely.  It  allus  agrees  with 
you.  If  you  feels  low  down  an'  mournful,  out 
comes  the  fiddle — out  comes  'The  Old  Gray 
Horse  that  Died  in  the  Wilderness.'  You  feels 
ca'am-like  an'  peaceful — out  comes  the  fiddle — 
out  comes  'Mother  an'  Me'  or  'Jordan's 
Strand.'  Mebbe  you  are  special  happy  an' 
joyous — out  comes  'The  Devil's  Dream'  or 
' Slatter-up-the-Ding-dang. '  Why,  Harvey,  it's 
a  wonder  to  me  you  never  took  up  music. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  how,"  replied  Harvey.  "I 
can't." 

37 


SIX  STABS 

"Can't!"  exclaimed  Irving.  "Can't!  Of 
course  you  can.  Fiddlin'  is  natural.  You 
never  had  a  fiddle,  did  you!  So  you  can't  play. 
S'posin'  you  never  had  a  fork  an'  knife— 
you  couldn't  eat,  could  you!  Music  is  the  food 
of  the  human  soul,  as  Pete  Ciders  sais.  Give 
a  baby  a  fiddle  when  you  give  him  a  knife  an' 
fork,  an'  he'll  play  as  natural  as  he'll  eat. 
Now,  ain't  that  true,  Harvey!" 

Harvey  thought  that  possibly  it  was.  If  he 
had  any  doubts  on  the  question,  Irving  did 
not  give  them  time  to  form  into  vigorous  op- 
position, for  he  placed  the  fiddle  in  Homer's 
hands. 

"Now,  try  it  oncet,  an'  see  if  it  ain't  like 
learnin'  to  swim — a  stroke  at  a  time." 

The  bow  was  drawn  over  the  strings,  and  the 
fiddle  gave  a  long  wail.  Colonel  followed  with 
a  howl. 

"It's  wonderful,"  said  Harvev.  "I'd  no 
idee  it  was  so  easy." 

Up  went  the  bow — forth  came  a  fire  of  short, 
sharp  screeches.  The  dog  fell  in  with  a  suc- 
cession of  yelps. 

"Why,  it's  just  tuned  to  me  an'  Colonel, 
38 


THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEY 

ain't  it,  Irving!"  Harvey  cried.    "Now,  I  must 
git  me  one  of  these." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?"  was  Irving 's  trium- 
phant rejoinder.  "Of  course  it's  easy.  Oncet 
you  can  play  the  notes  separate,  all  you  have 
to  learn  is  fittin'  them  together." 

Another  long  soft  wail ! — the  cry  that  a  lonely 
man  suppresses.  What  a  comfort  it  is  to  sit 
this  way  and  pour  forth  your  joys  and  your 
woes?  A  sweep  of  the  bow  and  you  hurl  forth 
defiance  at  the  world.  A  swing  of  the  arm, 
slowly,  softly,  and  you  whisper  some  tenderer 
emotion.  The  world  does  not  understand.  It 
thinks  you  fiddle.  Colonel  knows!  Colonel 
feels  it !  To  the  depths  of  his  dog-soul  the  cry 
of  the  fiddle  strikes. 

"You  like  it,  eh,  old  boy?"  said  Harvey, 
scratching  the  hound's  head  with  the  end  of 
the  bow.  "Well,  mebbe  I'll  git  one  of  these, 
jest  to  play  for  you. ' ' 

"You  might  have  that  one,"  put  in  Irving, 
most  opportunely,  "if  you  really  want  it,  an' 
will  promise  to  learn,  an'  won't  spile  it.  I 
think  a  heap  o'  that  wiolin,  an'  you  are  the  only 
man  in  the  walley  I'd  trust  it  with." 

39 


SIX  STAES 

Harvey  was  greatly  flattered  at  this  faith 
in  his  own  artistic  future,  and  promised  to 
take  the  best  of  care  of  it.  But  what  was  he 
to  give  in  return.  Somehow  Irving 's  eyes 
wandered  to  the  bicycle,  and  rested  there.  Har- 
vey asked  what  he  would  give  with  the  fiddle 
for  the  wheel.  At  this  young  Kallaberger 
laughed  outrageously.  The  real  question  was 
what  he  would  get  to  boot.  The  bicycle  would 
be  of  no  service  until  the  snow  was  gone,  and 
that  meant  months,  but  the  fiddle  could  be  used 
day  and  night,  winter  and  summer,  year  in  and 
year  out. 

"The  value  of  any  article,  Harvey,"  said  he 
didactically,  "is  dependent  on  what  you  gits 
outen  it.  They  is  nothin'  to  be  got  outen  that 
wheel  for  months.  But  look  at  the  fiddle.  Its 
worth  depends  on  the  quantity  of  music  it  '11 
give.  That  is  limited  only  be  your  muscle  an* 
your  tune.  There's  the  beauty  of  a  fiddle — you 
can't  empty  it." 

"Now,  I  never  tho't  o'  that  before,  Irving, 
said  Harvey  apologetically.  "Mebbe  I  otter 
give  you  somethin'  extry  with  the  wheel." 

Irving  really  felt  that  he  should.  Were  he 
40 


THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEY 

dealing  with  any  other  man  in  the  valley,  he 
would  insist  on  it,  but  it  was  a  great  deal  to 
know  that  the  loved  instrument  was  in  good 
hands — hands  that  would  care  for  it  and  get 
from  it  the  best  that  it  could  give  forth.  On 
the  other  side,  Harvey  entertained  no  such  feel- 
ings toward  the  bicycle.  He  regarded  the  ma- 
chine with  resentment,  for  by  the  flash  of  its 
spokes  and  the  purr  of  its  wheels  he  had  been 
lured  from  the  paths  trodden  by  his  father  and 
his  father's  father.  He  had  forgotten  them. 
The  old  hickory  ramrod  alone,  whittled  and 
seasoned  with  an  infinity  of  care,  was  worth 
a  dozen  of  these  factory  baubles.  So  when  he 
saw  the  last  of  the  bicycle,  as  Irving  Kalla- 
berger  was  pushing  it  down  the  road  through 
the  snow-drifts,  he  laughed  and  turned  to  his 
new  treasure. 

The  sun  had  swung  around  far  enough  to  be 
looking  in  the  westerly  window,  when  Harvey 
laid  down  the  fiddle  and  began  to  rub  his  elbows 
and  his  wrists,  which  were  crooked  and  stiff 
from  the  hours  of  earnest  sawing.  The  hound 
had  long  since  retired  behind  the  stove,  refus- 
ing to  be  further  moved  by  his  master's  music, 

41 


SIX  STABS 

except  at  intervals  to  lift  his  head  and  give  an 
angry  growl  of  protest. 

To  one  of  these  growls  Harvey  now  deigned 
to  reply,  as  he  was  trying  to  shake  some  blood 
into  his  left  arm. 

"You  mustn't  git  discouraged,  Colonel. 
Give  me  tjme.  They  is  a  heap  sight  more  in 
gittin'  the  notes  together  right  than  I  allowed 
fer.  Why,  this  here  arm  feels  like  it  had  been 
sleepin'  all  summer.  But  I'll  learn  it  if  I  has 
to  work  all  winter.  Don't  git  mad  about  it, 
Colonel.  Let  me  have  time — Irving  '11  help- 
he '11  explain  some  pints  that  we  ain't  clear  on, 
an*  then  I  bet  I  can  bring  tears  to  your  eyes 
agin." 

It  was  with  the  intention  of  getting  Irving 
to  explain,  and  the  added  purpose  of  inquiring 
for  mail,  that  Harvey  pulled  on  his  mackinaw 
jacket  and  started  for  the  village.  Every  af- 
ternoon of  his  life  he  made  this  little  excur- 
sion. It  was  seldom  that  the  mail  brought  him 
anything,  and  what  did  come  were  stray  patent 
medicine  circulars,  addressed  to  the  wife  whom 
a  half  hundred  of  these  nostrums  had  failed  to 
save.  She  was  gone  four  years  now,  and  still 

42 


THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEY) 

came  these  belated  answers  to  her  dying  ap- 
peals. Harvey  always  took  them  home  and 
read  them  and  treasured  them,  for  they  came 
to  him  as  messages  from  the  dead,  and  they 
used  to  say  in  Six  Stars  that  but  for  the  per- 
sistency of  the  quacks  he  would  have  married 
again  long  since.  Such  was  the  news  he  was 
going  to  get  as  he  trudged  along  the  snow- 
clogged  road  with  his  fiddle  under  his  arm.  At 
the  head  of  the  hill,  where  the  road  turns  and 
winds  down  to  the  village,  he  stopped  abruptly 
and  raised  a  hand  to  his  ear.  Away  up  the  val- 
ley he  heard  it,  very  faint  at  first;  now  clearer 
and  nearer;  now  full  and  strong,  ringing  along 
the  ridge-top — a  hound,  giving  tongue.  Har- 
vey knew  that  voice. 

"Old  Captain,"  he  said  half  aloud,  as  he 
stood  drinking  in  the  music.  "Tom  Lasher's 
old  Captain — there 's  a  dead  rabbit ! ' ' 

The  bark  of  a  rifle!  Harvey  Homer  swings 
on  his  heels,  and  goes  plunging  on  through  the 
snow.  He  knows  that  voice.  The  best  gun  in 
the  valley  is  singing  along  the  ridges.  Its  song 
is  reverberating  from  hill  to  hill,  and  now  it  is 
dying  away  in  the  woods  up  there  toward 

43 


SIX  STAKS 

home.  Perhaps  Colonel  hears  it  as  he  mopes 
about  the  barn-yard,  teasing  chickens!  Har- 
vey Homer  hears  it  as  he  goes  to  take  a  fiddle 
lesson ! 

As  he  strode  down  the  hill,  fleeing  from  the 
sight  and  sound  of  those  forbidden  pleasures, 
Harvey  was  hailed  by  a  small  boy.  He  would 
have  hurried  by  had  not  the  report  of  a  re- 
volver halted  him. 

Piney  Kallaberger  was  peppering  at  a  tin 
can  on  a  fence-post. 

"Mighty  souls!'*  cried  the  man.  "Can  you 
hit  anything  with  that  there?" 

"Can  I!"  replied  the  boy  disdainfully.  And 
the  can  rang  as  a  bullet  crashed  through  it. 

"Shootin'  mark  ain't  much  fun,  tho',"  said 
Piney,  falling  in  beside  Harvey,  and  stepping 
along  with  him.  "It's  awful  quiet  around  town 
now,  an7  when  Irving  goes  away  with  the  fid- 
dle there's  nothin'  fer  me  to  do.  Fiddlin'  is 
my  speciality,  when  I  can  git  a  fiddle." 

He  cast  a  wistful  glance  at  the  one  tucked 
tinder  his  companion's  arm. 

"Do  you  s'posin'  I  could  hit  a  rabbit  with 
that  there  revolver,  Piney?"  asked  Harvey. 

44 


THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEY 

"Does  I  s'posin'!"  cried  the  boy.  "I  don't 
s'posin'  at  all.  I  know  it." 

And  lie  proceeded  to  demonstrate  in  words 
why  the  revolver  was  infinitely  more  accurate 
in  its  fire,  easier  to  handle,  safer  to  carry  and 
more  amusing  to  clean  than  the  old-fashioned 
rifle.  Harvey  Homer  was  not  so  simple  as  to 
be  carried  away  by  the  boy's  praise  of  his 
weapon,  but  the  nearer  he  came  to  the  village, 
the  more  humble  he  felt  at  being  seen  with  a 
fiddle.  It  was  positively  effeminate.  Before  he 
reached  the  bridge  by  the  blacksmith  shop  he 
was  hiding  his  shame  beneath  his  mackinaw 
jacket.  By  the  time  the  mill  was  passed  he 
had  transferred  it  to  the  willing  hands  of 
Piney  Kallaberger,  and  when  he  stepped  into 
the  store  it  was  with  head  high  and  shoulders 
back,  for,  at  least,  he  carried  something  that 
would  shoot. 

When  the  store  door  opened  again  it  was  to 
admit  Aaron  Kallaberger.  The  veteran  seated 
himself  in  silence,  laid  the  best  gun  in  the  val- 
ley across  his  knees,  and,  from  some  mysteri- 
ous recess  in  the  lining  of  his  coat,  drew  a  dead 
rabbit.  This  he  dropped  carelessly  on  the  floor 

45 


at  his  feet.  Then  he  sighed  and  rubbed  his 
right  shoulder  cautiously. 

"Have  you  any  first-class  linnyment,  Ned?" 
he  asked,  addressing  the  storekeeper,  whose 
head  appeared  above  the  row  of  men  on  the 
bench  by  the  counter. 

There  was  a  loud  chuckle  behind  the  stove. 

"Now,  did  she  kick  you,  Aaron!"  cried  Har- 
vey Homer,  leaning  into  view.  "Ain't  that  a 
mighty  kno win' gun?  She  never  could  put  up 
with  strangers." 

Aaron  winked  at  Ned  Smith.  He  used  the 
eye  that  was  hidden  from  Harvey  by  his  eagle 's 
beak  nose. 

"It  was  this  here  'ay,"  he  said,  not  heeding 
the  jibe.  "I  had  ^nuck  up  along  behint  Laurel 
ridge,  when  old  Captain — I'd  borrowed  the 
hound  from  Lasher — old  Captain  he  brung  the 
rabbit  a- jump  in'  along  around  by  Jimpson's 
pond-field,  an'  I  ups  with  the  gun  an'- 

"See  here,  Aaron,"  cried  Harvey  plaintively, 
breaking  rudely  into  this  vivid  story  of  the 
hunt.  "You'll  spend  all  the  money  you  has 
on  linnyment  if  you  keeps  that  there  rifle.  I 
know  her  temper.  She  '11  kick  you  every  chance 

46 


THE  BEST  GUN  IN  THE  VALLEY 

she  gits.  Now,  her  an'  me  gits  along  as  sweet 
as  two  lambs.  S'posin'  we  swap." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  petickler,"  replied  the  veteran, 
"so  long  as  I  gits  a  good  bargain.  What  '11 
you  give?" 

Harvey  held  up  the  revolver. 

"That,"  shouted  Aaron,  laughing  derisively. 
"Why,  this  here  is  the  best  gun  in  the  walley." 

"You  sayd  yesterday  it  was  too  old,"  re- 
torted Harvey. 

"Too  old!"  cried  the  veteran.  "Mighty!  It's 
historical.  Your  grandpap  carried  it  in  the 
Revolution.  That  there  ramrod  alone  what  he 
whittled  is  a  relict.  Don't  be  childish,  Har- 
vey. ' ' 

"It  wouldn't  be  jest  an  even  trade,  I  know," 
said  Harvey  timidly,  "but  I  allow  if  I  th'owed 
in  a  dollar " 

"An'  a  bottle  of  linnyment,  it  'ud  be  fair," 
added  Aaron. 

Harvey  Homer  sat  late  that  night,  reading 
by  candle-light.  Suddenly  he  raised  his  eyes 
from  the  book  and  laughed. 

"He  got  a  bottle  of  linnyment,  Colonel,"  he 
said.  The  dog  had  been  napping  by  the  stove, 

47 


but  now  he  lifted  his  head  from  between  his 
forepaws  and  gazed  at  his  master.  ''He'll 
need  that  an'  the  spring-bed,  too."  Harvey 
arose,  and,  stepping  to  the  corner,  laid  one 
hand  on  the  muzzle  of  the  best  gun  in  the  val- 
ley. "We've  got  her  back,  Colonel,  an'  to- 
morrow we'll  go  huntin'  agin,  but  somehow 
my  brain  don't  seem  jest  right.  Somehow  we 
ain't  got  as  much  as  we  had  yesterday — me  an' 
you — an'  I  can't  account  for  it.  Figgers  allus 
did  mix  me.  The  Good  Book  straightens  out 
a  heap  of  things  in  this  world,  Colonel,  an'  I've 
been  readin'  that.  But  it  ain't  no  help.  It 
warns  a  feller  agin  most  everything.  I  tho't 
it  might  mention  the  Kallabergers.  But  it 
don't.  I  guess  that  was  because  it  was  wrote 
so  long  ago.  But,  I  allow,  if  it  was  to  be  wrote 
over  agin  it  'ud  mention  'em." 


48 


THE  NATUBAL-BOBN  PEEACHEE. 

JOSEPH  TUMBELL  was  a  natural-born 
preacher.  That  was  his  way  of  putting 
it,  and  he  was  positive  that  he  was  right.  Be- 
ing thus  divinely  gifted,  it  was  hard  that  he 
had  never  been  called  to  minister  to  the  people, 
for,  as  a  candidate  for  this  high  honor,  he  had 
stood  three  times  before  the  congregation  in 
the  old  Mennonite  meeting-house  on  the  ridge- 
side,  where  the  road  runs  across  hills  to  the 
river. 

"The  lot  is  cast  into  the  lap,"  the  Bishop 
had  said,  "but  the  whole  disposing  thereof  is 
of  the  Lord." 

The  young  man  believed  that.  But  the  firmer 
his  conviction,  the  harder  to  bear  was  the 
sight  of  another,  one  of  poor  parts,  of  halting 
speech  and  a  barren  brain,  taking  from  the 
table  the  book  in  which  lay  the  white  slip  that 
lifted  him  from  the  ranks  to  leadership,  that 
transformed  him  from  a  silent  listener  into  an 

49 


SIX  STAKS 

expounder  of  divine  truths.  That  a  gifted  man 
like  William  Larker,  or  one  so  devout  as  Her- 
mann Appel,  should  have  been  called  to  the 
ministry  before  him  was  just,  but  when  Joseph 
thought  of  Adam  Snauffer,  and  recalled  his 
smug  countenance — fat,  rosy  red  and  framed 
in  rolls  of  shiny  hair  and  a  beard  most  fastidi- 
ously trimmed — when  he  remembered  the  lit- 
tle, restless,  bulging  eyes,  that  seemed  to  ferret 
out  in  an  instant  all  the  good  points  of  a  horse 
and  the  bad  ones  of  a  man,  then  deep  down  in 
his  heart  he  was  inclined  to  suspect  that  there 
had  been  some  grave  error  in  "the  whole  dis- 
posing thereof."  Perhaps  not.  There  might 
be  in  Adam  latent  powers  for  good  that  would 
be  developed  now  that  he  sat  above  the  people 
with  their  ministers,  but  it  had  always  seemed 
that  he  had  laid  up  too  many  goods  in  this 
world  to  be  giving  much  thought  to  the  doubt- 
ful possessions  of  that  to  come. 

Snauffer  was  a  fine  farmer.  He  was  an  ex- 
cellent horse-trader.  Yet  to  discover  in  him 
the  elements  of  a  forceful  speaker  required, 
indeed,  a  higher  wisdom  than  Joseph's,  or 
even  that  of  the  venerable  Bishop  and  his  fel- 

50 


THE  NATURAL-BORN  PREACHER 

lows.  The  lot  had  been  cast,  and  it  was  not 
to  be  questioned,  but  man  is  weak  and  rebel- 
lious, and  when  he  is  a  natural-born  preacher, 
too,  he  must  take  it  a  bit  hard  to  be  compelled 
on  six  days  of  the  week  to  work  from  dawn  un- 
til dark  in  his  fields,  on  a  by-road,  four  miles 
from  the  turnpike,  and  then  when  Sunday 
comes  sit  silent  in  the  congregation. 

It  was  a  day  in  early  June.  Joseph  was 
working  in  his  cornfield  on.  the  ridge-side,  and 
long  had  been  standing,  leaning  against  the 
cultivator.  He  was  at  the  end  of  the  row.  It 
was  a  fashion  of  his  always  to  be  at  the  end  of 
the  row.  Even  the  store  had  noticed  it  and 
commented  on  it  unfavorably,  for  they  said 
that  it  showed  in  the  corn.  But  a  man  cannot 
meditate  when  he  is  driving  a  blind  sorrel 
mare  and  a  fractious  mule,  and  trying  at  the 
same  time  to  steer  a  clumsy  machine  between 
two  rows  of  delicate  corn-stalks.  Below  him 
the  valley  lay,  and  a  bustling  place  it  was. 
A  white  line  showed  here  and  there  against  a 
green  slope,  marking  the  turnpike  up  and  down 
which  the  great  world  hurried.  There  was  the 
village,  with  the  store,  a  vast  and  venerable 

51 


structure,  a  centre  of  trade  and  thought,  lift- 
ing its  roof  above  the  maples,  and  close  beside 
it  the  mill,  that  groaned  all  day  like  a  living 
thing.  Beyond  the  sweep  of  rolling  fields  arose 
another  ridge,  fringed  at  its  crest  with  a 
stretch  of  pine  woods,  and  there,  standing  out 
sharply  against  the  dark  hill-side,  was  the 
Mennonite  meeting-house,  the  hundred  white 
gravestones  that  clustered  about  it  now  glit- 
tering in  the  noon  sun.  It  was  here  that  the 
young  man's  eyes  were  resting,  and  here,  too, 
were  his  thoughts  fixed,  for  to-morrow  Adam 
Snauffer  was  to  preach  for  the  first  time. 

Joseph  pictured  it  all  in  his  mind.  But  when 
the  minister  arose  before  the  great  congrega- 
tion, it  was  never  Adam  Snauffer  who  stood  at 
the  table,  looking  down  at  the  people;  it  was 
Joseph  Tumbell,  called  at  last  to  the  work  for 
which  he  was  so  peculiarly  fitted.  How  sol- 
emn the  preacher  looked!  How  deep  and 
strong  rang  his  voice,  as  he  exhorted  his  hear- 
ers to  heed  his  warnings,  to  follow  his  leading ! 
He  heard  the  groans  of  the  old  men.  He  saw 
the  earnest  faces  of  the  sisters.  The  sisters? 
The  multitude  of  them  faded  away,  and  one 

52 


THE  NATURAL-BORN  PREACHER 

alone  remained.  The  brethren  were  forgotten, 
and  now  he  was  preaching  to  her.  She  did  not 
need  his  exhortation.  Who  could  look  into 
that  serene  face,  framed  in  the  white  prayer- 
covering  and  a  wealth  of  soft  brown  hair — who 
could  look  into  those  frank  blue  eyes  and  say 
she  needed  exhortation?  He  was  preaching 
for  her;  that  she  might  see  him  as  more  than 
the  humble  toiler  of  the  ridges ;  that  she  might 
know  him  as  one  peculiarly  gifted  and  called, 
therefore,  to  prophesy  before  the  people.  She 
would  place  his  talents  in  the  balance  against 
the  fat  farm  down  there  in  the  valley,  against 
the  brick  house  with  the  two  front  doors  and 
the  portico,  against  the  full  barn  and  smoke- 
house, with  which  Snauffer  was  seeking  to  win 
her.  Snauffer?  The  very  thought  of  the  man 
dispelled  all  his  dreams  and  brought  him  back 
to  realities.  If  she  wasted  a  glance  on  Joseph 
to-morrow  it  would  be  to  see  in  him  one  not 
only  inferior  to  Adam  as  regarded  worldly 
possessions,  but,  judged  by  the  lot,  poorer  in 
spiritual  treasures. 

Even  now  the  fat  figure  uppermost  in  his 
mind  was  right  before  him,  not  in  the  pulpit 

53 


SIX  STABS 

of  his  fancy,  but  on  the  topmost  rail  of  his  own 
fence,  complacently  chewing  a  long  piece  of 
timothy  and  grinning. 

"I  seen  you  was  talkin'  to  yourself,  Joseph, 
so  I  'lowed  I  wouldn't  disturb  you,"  he  said. 

"You  did  kind  o'  give  me  a  start,"  growled 
the  young  man.  "I  was  stedyin'  a  leetle,  an' 
didn't  know  they  was  any  one  'round." 

"You  have  a  repytation  for  stedyin'  a 
heap,"  returned  Adam  pleasantly.  "That's 
my  weak  pint — stedyin'  an'  medytatin'.  I'm 
a  stavin'  worker  'hen  they  is  somethin'  to  git 
a  holt  on,  but  'hen  it  comes  to  shettin'me  eyes 
an'  grabbin'  round  for  idees  then  I'm  short." 

"How  are  you  goin'  to  preach?"  inquired 
Joseph,  with  a  supercilious  toss  of  his  head. 
"To  be  a  preacher  you'll  have  to  have  some- 
thin'  to  say.  To  git  somethin'  to  say,  a  man 
must  medytate." 

"That's  it  exactly.  You  couldn't  'a'  put  it 
better,"  returned  Snauffer,  not  in  the  least 
disturbed  by  the  other's  contemptuous  tones. 
"You  see,  I'm  most  pestered  to  death,  fer  to- 
morrow I  starts  in  preachin',  and  to  save  my 
head  I  don't  know  what  I'm  goin'  to  say.  All 

54 


THE  NATURAL-BORN  PREACHER 

this  week  I've  ben  so  busy  gittin'  out  shingles 
from  my  woods  I  ain't  had  time  to  think.  Last 
night  I  went  to  bed  intendin'  to  lay  late  this 
mornin'  an'  stedy  out  some  pints  as  I  was  doz- 
in'.  It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  agin  I  got  up, 
an'  not  an  idee  could  I  git  my  hands  on  to 
preach  about." 

Joseph  became  sympathetic.  "Mighty 
souls!"  he  said,  leaning  on  a  wheel  and  ad- 
justing himself  to  hear  a  long  story  of  trouble 
from  his  visitor. 

"A  feller  with  your  talents  can  be  sur- 
prised," Adam  went  on,  "but  fer  a  plain  man 
like  me  it  comes  hard  to  start.  I  spent  the 
whole  mornin'  settin'  on  a  chicken-coop  in  the 
orchard  tryin'  to  medytate,  an'  not  a  thing 
would  come  outen  my  head  but  how  many  foot 
o'  scantlin'  an'  shingles  I  could  cut  off  en  the 
chestnut  flats.  At  last  I  tho't  o'  you,  Joseph. 
You  are  gifted;  you  have  a  heap  o'  idees. 
Now,  s'posin'  you  uns  was  in  my  place,  what 
'ud  you  say?" 

Joseph  glanced  at  the  blind  sorrel  mare,  and 
from  her  to  the  fat  figure  of  her  former  owner 
on  the  fence.  He  was  very  suspicious,  and 

55 


SIX  STARS 

made  no  reply,  save  to  nod  his  head  knowingly 
and  smile.  Adam  looked  at  the  sorrel  mare, 
too.  He  had  smiled  a  year  before,  when  he 
traded  her  for  a  good  Durham  cow  and  $10  to 
boot.  Now  he  was  all  solemnity,  and  a  pious 
picture  he  made  in  his  wide-brimmed  hat  and 
his  brown  coat,  with  its  great  tails  spread  over 
the  rail  at  either  side  of  him. 

"Well,  Joseph  I"  he  said,  after  a  long  si- 
lence. 

"I  might  want  to  use  my  sermon  sometim', 
mebbe,  myself,"  replied  the  young  man 
bruskly. 

"I  trust  that  in  good  time  the  lot  will  fall  on 
you,"  cried  Adam,  with  great  earnestness.  "It 
otter  V  done  it  last  week,  but,  fer  some  reason 
beyant  me  or  you,  I  was  called.  An'  fer  some 
reason  beyant  me  was  I  drawed  up  here  this 
mornin'.  You  can  teach  me." 

Joseph  looked  again  at  the  blind  sorrel  mare, 
and  from  her  to  the  form  on  the  fence,  and  then 
to  the  little  meeting-house  on  the  other  ridge. 
He  could  not  stand  before  the  people  to-mor- 
row and  preach.  Years  might  pass,  or  his  life 
might  pass,  without  the  lot  falling  on  him.  It 

56 


by  Howard  Pyle. 

"Humbility  is  the  fountain  of  all  wirtue," 


THE  NATURAL-BORN  PREACHER 

was  a  poor  substitute  to  have  another  utter  his 
thoughts,  but  this  was  better  than  that  they 
should  never  go  beyond  the  confines  of  his 
fields  and  have  no  hearers  but  his  dumb  brutes. 

"I  have  a  sermon,  Adam,"  he  said  at  last, 
his  tone  becoming  a  little  more  genial.  "I 
have  a  number  of  'em,  but  I  allus  intended  to 
begin  with  one  about  humbility." 

"  Humbility  ?"  repeated  Adam.  "That  is 
fine.  Now,  how'd  you  uns  start  if  you  was 
me!" 

Joseph  turned  slowly,  and,  removing  his  hat, 
dropped  it  on  the  cultivator.  Then  he  laid  one 
hand  solemnly  on  the  handle  as  though  it  were 
the  pulpit,  and  raising  the  other  and  shaking 
it  at  his  only  auditor,  he  cried,  "Humbility  is 
the  fountain  of  all  wirtue.  Be  humbility " 

"Hoi'  on,"  Adam  interrupted.  "Wait  tell  I 
git  that.  Humbility  is  the  fountain  of  all  wir- 
tue. That's  good." 

' '  Be  humbility  in  this  world  we  becomes  big- 
itive  in  the  next,"  continued  the  preacher. 
"The  more  bigitive  we  are  in  this  world,  the 
more  humbiller  will  be  our  placet  in  that  to 
come." 

57 


SIX  STARS 

"Wait  tell  I  catch  that,"  pleaded  Adam. 

But  Joseph  went  right  on.  "Oh,  brethren, 
heed  me  warnin'I  Mind  how  the  prophet  sayd 
pride  goeth  before  the  fall."  He  stopped  sud- 
denly and  smiled.  "That's  the  way  I'd  open 
up,"  he  added. 

"Pride  goeth  before  the  fall,"  repeated 
Adam.  "That  is  grand — pride  goeth  before 
the  fall;  but  say  now,  wouldn't  autumn  sound 
fancier  ? ' ' 

"That  ain't  what  the  prophet  sayd,"  replied 
Joseph  contemptuously.  "It  ain't  what  he 
meant  nuther.  But  I  allus  intended  to  run  in 
a  figger  like  this — before  the  fall — that  is  to 
say,  brethren,  how  as  in  our  summer-time  'hen 
we  are  all  covered  with  be'yutiful  flowers,  an' 
grass,  an'  wavin'  fiel's,  we  are  puffed  up,  but 
then  comes  the  fall — that  is  jest  a  figger,  mind 
ye,  Adam — then  comes  the  fall.  All  the  be-yuti- 
ful  flowers  dies  an'  the  leaves  begins  flyin' 
round,  leavin'  our  limbs  all  bare  an'  cold.  Then, 
brethren,  we  can  puff  up,  but  it  won't  warm 
us,  an*  we'll  be  most  a 'mighty  glad  for  an  hum- 
ble hay-stack  to  crawl  under.  Do  you  catch  the 
idee,  Adam?" 

58 


THE  NATURAL-BORN  PREACHER 

"It's  grand,"  cried  Adam.  "It's  a  splendid 
beginnin'.  But  that  ain't  all,  is  it?  I  have  to 
fill  in  at  least  ten  minutes,  but  still  I  s'pose  I 
can  repeat." 

"All?"  exclaimed  Joseph.  "Mighty!  Why, 
with  a  sub-ject  like  this  here,  it's  hard  to  stop. 
There  are  some  texts  you'll  preach  on  'hen 
it  '11  be  best  jest  to  keep  repeatin',  but  on  hum- 
bility,  never." 

Adam  was  shaking  his  head  dubiously. 

"Well,  now,  mind  me,"  said  Joseph  reas- 
suringly. "Havin'  begin,  I'd  go  on  an'  tell  the 
brethren  how  wicked  I'd  ben  oncet  myself,  an' 
how  big-feelin',  an'  how  I  become  humble  agin 
— humble  as  a  leetle  child. ' ' 

"Most  a 'mighty  impressing"  said  Adam, 
wagging  his  head  approvingly.  "I'll  certainly 
do  that." 

Joseph  had  forgotten  him.  "I  had  a  buddy 
oncet,"  he  droned,  grasping  the  wheel  with 
both  hands,  throwing  back  his  head  and  closing 
his  eyes  as  though  he  were  groping  his  way 
about  the  dreadful  past.  "He  was  a  wicked 
young  man,  brethren,  an'  I  was  a  follower  o' 
the  darkness.  -They  was  nothin'  wrong  to  be 

59 


SIX  STARS 

done  in  this  walley  that  me  an*  my  buddy 
didn't  do.    Oh,  but  we  was  wild ! ' ' 

He  did  not  go  much  into  details.  While  he 
gave  a  few  specific  instances  wherein  he  and 
his  boon  companion  on  the  broad  way  had 
erred,  these  were  engulfed  in  dreadful  gener- 
alities. The  wonder  was  that  the  quiet  valley 
could  have  nourished  so  much  evil.  But  Jo- 
seph's story  so  transformed  it  that  where 
Pleasantville  lifted  her  three  spires  heaven- 
ward; where  the  white  stones  glistened  in  the 
Mennonite  burying-ground ;  where  below  him 
the  mill  lay  snoring  in  the  slumbering  village ; 
where  to  the  south  hovered  a  cloud  of  smoke, 
marking  the  only  place  in  the  whole  pious 
country  into  which  that  great  iron  serpent,  the 
railroad,  had  driven  its  ugly  body,  one  might 
well  have  looked  to  see  the  walls  of  Sodom  and 
Gomorrah,  of  Nineveh  and  Tyre.  Joseph 
Tumbell  and  his  buddy  escaped  the  gallows. 
Thither  they  were  bound,  and  thus  alone  could 
their  career  have  been  checked  had  not  a  wild 
night  adventure  intervened  to  save  them.  Just 
what  occurred  to  drag  them  back  to  the  narrow 
way,  the  preacher  did  not  explain;  but  his  free 

60 


THE  NATURAL-BORN  PREACHER 

use  of  adjectives  made  it  evident  that  it  was 
one  of  those  terrifying  manifestations  of  phys- 
ical power  that  come  at  times  from  the  most 
unexpected  quarters  to  cause  mental  upheaval. 

"Oh,  it  was  awful !"  cried  Joseph,  closing  his 
eyes  again  as  though  to  shut  out  the  recollec- 
tion. "We  was  miles  from  home,  an*  the  night 
was  dark,  an'  the  thunder  an'  lightnin'  was  a- 
rollin'  an'  a-flashin'  around  us.  But  it  changed 
me  an'  me  buddy  then  an'  there.  Wild  as  we 
was,  we  became  humbiller  than  leetle  children. 
We  made  a  promise,  providin'  we  ever  got 
home.  It  was  a  promise  that  reginerated  us, 
an'  brought  us  back  outen  our  dark  ways.  We 
never  danced  agin." 

Having  demonstrated  his  own  humility  and 
shown  its  cause,  and  having  by  the  words  he 
was  uttering  proven  its  fruits,  Joseph  opened 
his  eyes  and  picked  up  his  hat.  Then  he 
smiled. 

Adam  Snauffer  said  nothing,  but  got  down 
from  the  fence  and  climbed  into  his  buckboard. 
For  several  minutes  he  sat  there,  wiggling  his 
whip  pensively. 

"It's  grand,"  he  said  at  last.  "You  cer- 
61 


SIX  STARS 

tainly  Have  helped  me  a  heap,  an'  it's  done  me 
good  to  hear  you.  If  I  can  jest  remember,  it'll 
be  fine:  First,  humbility  is  the  fountain  of 
wirtue;  secondly,  pride  goeth  before  the  fall, 
and  thirdly,  how  wicked  I  was.  I  allow  I  can 
holt  it  tell  to-morrow." 

He  did  remember  with  remarkable  facility. 

It  was  a  fair  day,  and  from  every  quarter  of 
the  valley  the  people  had  come  to  hear  the  new 
minister.  The  little  white-walled  meeting- 
house was  crowded.  Joseph  tucked  himself 
away  in  a  corner,  and  had  to  crane  his  neck 
covertly  to  look  over  a  score  of  hoary-headed 
brethren  and  see  a  certain  white  cap  on  the 
sisters'  side.  There  were  half  a  hundred  of 
them,  but  he  located  this  particular  one,  and  by 
careful  watching  he  could  sometimes  discover 
a  break  in  that  solemn  wall  of  bearded  men 
and  through  it  get  the  briefest  glimpse  of  the 
serene  face  and  the  mild  blue  eyes  fixed  so 
earnestly  on  the  preachers.  She  did  not  see 
him,  the  humble  toiler  of  the  ridges.  But 
Adam  Snauffer  was  in  the  row  of  ministers, 
and  one  of  the  six  great  black  hats  hanging  so 
gravely  on  the  wall  behind  the  pulpit  was  his. 

62 


THE  NATURAL-BORN  PREACHER 

The  Bishop  was  on  his  left  hand,  and  on  his 
right  was  the  venerable  William  Larker.  He 
was  with  the  leaders,  placed  there  by  the  lot 
that  expressed  the  divine  will.  As  compared 
to  him,  how  small  must  Joseph  Tumbell  seeml 
Poor  Joseph!  A  long-drawn  nasal  tone  from 
an  old  brother  on  the  front  bench  started  the 
congregation  swinging  away  into  a  hymn,  but 
instead  of  sending  his  voice  sounding  above 
the  others,  as  was  his  custom,  he  now  went 
mumbling  and  stumbling  through  the  buck- 
wheat notes.  He  got  behind  and  sang  a  bar 
all  alone  at  the  close.  When  he  recovered  him- 
self, it  was  to  see  Adam  Snauffer  standing  at 
the  table,  awkwardly  fumbling  his  Bible.  - 

There  was  a  silence  in  the  room.  The  preacher 
shifted  uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other 
several  times.  Then,  in  a  voice  hardly  audible 
three  benches  away,  he  began:  "As  I  set  here 
to-day  a  few  tho'ts  are  suggested  to  me."  A 
long  pause  followed,  broken  by  a  loud  "Amen" 
from  a  brother  in  the  congregation.  "These 
few  tho'ts  was  suggested — humbility  is  the 
fountain  of  all  wirtue." 

Adam  dropped  the  book  and  folded  his 
63 


SIX  STARS 

hands,  as  though  he  were  waiting  for  his  first 
shot  to  land  before  firing  again. 

"Be  humbility "  He  made  another  vio- 
lent attack  on  the  book,  and  looked  at  the  ceil- 
ing. "Be  humbility 

He  wavered.  Joseph  Tumbell,  in  his  ob- 
scure corner,  forgot  self  and  leaned  forward 
eagerly.  Would  Adam  remember?  Oh,  if  he 
could  only  help — if  he  could  only  shout  it  to 
him! 

Adam  did  remember.  His  first  fear  was 
gone;  his  old  assurance  returned.  As  though 
by  a  sudden  inspiration,  he  cried:  "Be  hum- 
bility we  become  bigitive  in  the  next  world." 

He  stopped  again,  and  again  he  folded  his 
hands,  but  now  it  was  with  perfect  composure. 
He  showed  it  by  smiling.  To  be  able  to  stand 
on  both  feet  before  an  audience  and  at  the 
same  time  smile  has  always  been  a  proof  of 
oratorical  equilibrium.  So  Adam's  next 
thought  was  put  forth  in  an  impressive,  a 
deep  and  unctuous  tone.  "Another  idee  has 
been  suggested  as  I  set  here  on  this  be-yutiful 
day — pride  goeth  before  the  fall — mind  ye' 
brethren,  before  the  fall — that's  a  figger." 

64 


THE  NATURAL-BORN  PREACHER 

Now  the  sermon  moved  splendidly,  and 
the  thoughts  came  as  fast  as  they  were  sug- 
gested. At  times  the  preacher  was  a  trifle 
mixed,  and  again  and  again  he  disregarded 
his  instructor's  injunction  and  repeated,  be- 
lieving, perhaps,  that  by  many  repetitions  the 
idea  might  once  be  correctly  expressed.  Re- 
covering the  use  of  his  voice,  he  got  entire 
control  of  his  hands,  and  the  eyes,  that  at  first 
sought  the  table  or  the  ceiling,  now  looked 
squarely  into  those  of  his  hearers. 

At  length  he  paused.  His  arms  were  low- 
ered, his  hands  grasped  the  table,  his  head  was 
thrown  back,  his  eyes  closed,  and  in  a  solemn 
voice  he  said :  "I  had  a  buddy  oncet. ' ' 

Joseph  Tumbell  was  astounded.  This  was 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  heard  of  Adam  pos- 
sessing an  intimate  friend  of  any  kind,  for  his 
close  ways  and  horse  trades  had  always  made 
him  rather  unpopular  in  the  valley.  If  he 
ever  had  a  boon  companion  it  had  been  kept 
very  quiet,  and  the  announcement  now  came 
as  a  surprise.  But  if  this  was  unexpected,  still 
more  so  was  the  bold  declaration  that  Adam 
and  his  buddy  were  partners  in  wickedness. 

65 


Joseph  began  to  be  angry,  for  he  had  expected 
that  in  following  his  suggestion  Snauffer  would 
supply  a  sketch  of  his  own  life,  but  it  was 
quickly  made  evident  that  the  sins  he  was  fa- 
thering were  not  his  at  all.  They  belonged 
to  Joseph  Tumbell.  There  was  a  boastful  ring 
in  the  preacher's  voice,  too,  as  he  told  how 
wicked  he  and  his  buddy  had  been.  He  even 
began  to  repeat.  He  was  bemoaning  the  fact 
that  in  his  young  days  he  had  been  given  to 
the  vanity  of  fancy  clothes,  that  he  had  played 
cards  and  even  descended  to  dancing,  yet  he 
never  referred  to  his  recent  bargain  in  trading 
off  his  blind  sorrel.  There  were  a  hundred 
glaring  omissions  and  commissions  of  a  late 
date  that  he  might  well  have  mentioned,  but 
instead  he  took  Joseph's  sins,  multiplied  them 
by  three  and  claimed  them  as  his  own.  Then 
followed  the  regeneration,  for  the  Adam 
Snauffer  the  people  saw  before  them  was  not 
the  wild  rake  of  years  ago.  He,  too,  had  be- 
come "humbiller  than  a  leetle  child."  The  way- 
ward, reckless  youth  and  his  buddy  were  miles 
from  home  on  a  stormy  night,  and  the  thunder 
was  crashing  around  them,  when  an  awful 

66 


THE  NATURAL-BORN  PREACHER 

thing  happened.  They  saw  the  error  of  their 
ways  and  made  a  vow  to  live  aright  hence- 
forth. They  never  danced  again. 

"Whatever  might  have  been  the  feelings  of 
his  instructor,  the  new  minister  that  day  estab- 
lished a  high  reputation  in  the  minds  of  the 
valley.  As  he  shouldered  his  way  down  the 
crowded  aisle  at  the  end  of  the  service,  Joseph 
heard  on  every  hand:  " Preacher  Snauffer  is 
a  wonderful  talker." 

Even  Mary  said  it.  He  was  unhitching  her 
horse,  being  too  much  wrought  up  to  linger 
about  the  door  and  gossip.  He  wanted  to  see 
her  alone,  and  to  speak  to  her,  if  only  to  make 
a  remark  about  the  weather,  that  under  the 
spell  of  Snauffer 's  eloquence  she  might  not  for- 
get the  simple  farmer  of  the  ridges. 

"Adam  is  a  wonderful  talker,"  she  said  as 
she  climbed  into  her  buckboard  and  gathered 
up  the  reins. 

"Wonderful — wonderful,"  replied  Joseph 
mechanically. 

He  stepped  away  from  the  fat  horse's  head, 
expecting  that  she  would  drive  off.  She  did 
not. 

67 


SIX  STARS 

"Mebbe  I  might  give  you  a  lift,"  she  said, 
looking  away  up  the  ridge,  thus  hiding  her  face 
from  his  by  her  bonnet. 

"Mebbe  you  might,"  said  he. 

When  he  saw  her  face  again  they  were  a  half 
mile  down  the  road,  and  the  meeting-house  had 
disappeared  behind  the  bend. 

"Adam  is  a  wonderful  talker,"  she  said,  now 
looking  frankly  at  the  young  man  seated  at 
her  side. 

Joseph  was  contemplating  his  left  foot.  It 
was  swinging  down  beside  the  wheels.  Won- 
derfully comforting  it  is  when  you  are  driving 
with  a  woman,  to  let  one  foot  swing  free  of  the 
wagon  this  way.  It  helps  so  in  the  long  inter- 
vals between  remarks  to  be  occupied  with  some- 
thing, for  when  one  of  your  feet  is  likely  at  any 
moment  to  become  tangled  among  revolving 
spokes  you  cannot  be  expected  to  keep  a  con- 
tinual gabble.  So  Joseph  simply  nodded. 

They  were  at  the  covered  bridge,  where  the 
road  turns  and  goes  straight  across  the  valley, 
when  she  spoke  again. 

"I  had  no  idee  Adam  was  so  wicked,"  she 
said. 

68 


THE  NATURAL-BORN  PREACHER 

Joseph  forgot  his  foot.  ' '  Oh,  that 's  nothin  V ' 
he  cried.  "He  never  done  all  them  things. 
That  was  jest  preachin  V 

"If  he'd  only  done  half  of  'em  it  'ud  'a'  ben 
too  much,"  said  she.  "No  man  who  has  ben 
so  wicked  as  that  is  safe." 

"I  never  knowd  nothin'  agin  him  but  smart 
horse  tradin ', ' '  returned  Joseph  stoutly.  '  *  That 
ain  't  sin  exactly. ' ' 

Mary  looked  right  at  him. 

"Joseph,"  she  said,  "don't  you  tell  me  that 
a  man  as  has  ben  as  bad  as  Adam  Snauffer  can 
ever  git  entirely  over  it.  There  ain't  a  thun- 
der-storm goin'  that'll  scare  him  complete — it 
might  all  come  back  most  any  time." 

Poor  Joseph!  These  were  his  own  precious 
sins  she  was  talking  about.  The  first  feeling 
of  elation  that  she  should  have  turned  against 
the  sleek  Snauffer  was  lost  in  the  knowledge 
that  the  faults  that  had  won  Adam  this  con- 
demnation were,  after  all,  not  the  preacher's, 
but  his  own.  If  she  knew,  would  she  now  be 
riding  at  his  side?  If  the  lot  had  fallen  on  him 
and  he  had  arisen  before  her  and  descanted  on 
the  evil  of  his  past,  would  she  now  be  giving 

69 


SIX  STARS 

him  a  lift!  The  girl  was  gazing  at  him  so 
frankly  and  trustfully  that  he  turned  his  head, 
that  his  great  hat-brim  might  interpose  between 
them.  He  fastened  his  eyes  on  the  swinging 
foot,  now  perilously  near  the  wheel. 

It  was  an  age  until  she  spoke  again.  They 
had  passed  the  mill  and  were  slowly  climbing 
the  long  ridge  hill. 

' 'What  was  the  awful  thing  that  happened 
the  night  he  was  reginerated?"  she  demanded 
suddenly. 

"He — he  dished  a  wheel,"  answered  Joseph 
ruefully. 

'  *  He  done  what  ? ' '  she  exclaimed. 

"If  the  night  he  was  tellin'  of  is  the  one  I 
think,  he  dished  a  wheel,"  said  he. 

Mary  tossed  her  head  disdainfully  and  cried : 
"Dished  a  wheel!  An'  he  says  he  was  reginer- 
ated  be  dishin'  a  wheel!" 

Joseph  was  silent.  How  different  the  plain 
truth  sounded,  stripped  bare  of  its  wordy  cover- 
ing of  thunder  and  lightning,  of  storm  and 
terror ! 

"It  really  does  seem  a  leetle  weak,"  he 
stammered. 

70 


THE  NATURAL-BORN  PREACHER 

"I  should  'low  it  was  most  a 'mighty  weak," 
said  she.  "He  need  never  come  to  me  an'  tell 
how  awful  wicked  he  was,  an'  that  be  dishin' 
a  wheel  he  was  saved." 

The  girl  looked  away,  hiding  her  face  from 
him  with  her  bonnet.  There  was  a  very  long 
pause.  Several  times  the  fat  horse  almost 
stopped  moving  and  turned  his  head  inquir- 
ingly to  discover  why  his  mistress  neither  chir- 
ruped nor  slapped  him  on  the  back  with  the 
reins. 

"I  wouldn't  mind  him  bein'  wicked  so  awful 
much,"  she  said  at  last,  with  a  little  sigh,  "but 
I  hate  to  see  a  man  so  soft." 

Joseph  gave  no  answer  until  the  top  of  the 
hill  was  reached.  There  he  braced  himself  sud- 
denly, and  looked  at  her  very  hard  and 
laughed. 

"I  'low  it  was  lucky  I  didn't  draw  the  lot," 
he  exclaimed. 

"If  you  had  I'd  'a'  took  Adam  Snauffer," 
said  she. 

Oh,  these  maddening  poke-bonnets  that  turn 
upward  and  downward  and  outward  when  you 
would  have  them  point  right  at  you! 

n 


SIX  STARS 

Joseph  has  planted  his  left  foot  squarely 
in  the  wagon  now.  For  when  you  love  a 
woman,  and  she  loves  you,  and  you  know  it 
and  she  knows  it,  it  is  foolish  to  watch  your 
boots. 


THE  SNYDER  COUNTY  GOLD-STRIKE. 

AS  a  man  of  honor  Piney  Cridle  had  hut 
one  way  open  to  him,  and  that  led  past 
the  worthies  of  the  bench — past  the  stern  fig- 
ure of  the  storekeeper,  past  the  tall  rolls  of  oil- 
cloth standing  sentinel-like  at  the  counter's  end, 
through  the  door,  and  out  into  the  world.  He 
followed  it.  But  the  world  was  cold  that  morn- 
ing. Not  a  chicken  had  dared  the  blast  that 
swept  the  village  street,  and  on  the  valley's 
edge  the  mountains  rose,  dark  and  forbidding, 
capped  by  a  gray  cloud  that  bore  a  promise  of 
sleet  and  hail.  To  those  mountains  he  must 
go.  His  honor  demanded  it.  But  now  that  the 
door  was  open  and  the  wind  was  clutching  at 
his  neck,  he  turned  a  moment  from  the  way  and 
looked  back. 

"I  didn't  think  it  o'  you,  Ned,"  he  said. 
''You've  sayd  the  word,  though,  an'  I  go,  fer 
I'll  never  hang  around  a  store  where  I  can't 
have  trust. " 

73 


SIX  STARS 

"Don't  you  know  the  threenometer  says  it's 
freezin'?"  shouted  Lucien  Killowill,  as  he 
turned  up  his  coat  collar  and  pushed  along  the 
bench  to  avoid  the  draft.  "Hain't  you  no  bet- 
ter sense  than  to  git  insulted  with  the  door 
open?" 

"I  didn't  think  it  o'  you,  Ned,"  said  Piney 
again,  not  heeding  the  old  man's  protests, 
though  he  obeyed  the  implied  command,  and 
was  now  standing  with  his  hand  on  the  knob, 
his  back  to  the  cold  world  and  the  dreary  hills, 
his  face  to  that  bright,  stove-lit  circle  from 
which  he  was  banished. 

Ned's  face  softened.  He  unbent  and  leaned 
over  the  counter,  strumming  a  tattoo  with  his 
pencil. 

"I'm  sorry,  Piney,"  he  said;  "but  I  ain't  in 
business  fer  love.  Of  course  I'd  like  to  be,  well 
enough,  but  you  know  I  can't — so  there's  the 
end  of  it." 

Lucien  Killowill  nodded  his  head  approv- 
ingly. 

"When  a  man  gits  the  gold  craze,"  he  be- 
gan; "when  he  leaves  home  an'  friends,  re- 
ligion an'  country,  an'  goes  to  Snyder  County 

74 


THE  SNYDEE  COUNTY  GOLD-STKIKE 

diggin'  gold;  when  lie  tears  asunder  them  ties 
that  binds  even  the  humbillest  of  us  an' " 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  began  to  cough,  for 
Piney  was  towering  over  him.  On  the  young 
man 's  face  there  was  a  look  half  of  amusement, 
half  of  disdain. 

"I  owe  you  an'  yours  nothing  Lucien,"  he 
said.  "When  I  do  you  can  wag  your  head  an' 
leckter — not  till  then,  mind  you.  This  here  is 
between  Ned  an'  me — this  is;  an'  if  he  won't 
give  me  no  more  trust  till  I  settle  a  leetle  mat- 
ter of  five  dollars,  that's  his  affair  an'  mine — 
ain't  it,  Ned?" 

The  storekeeper,  having  in  mind  Killowill's 
own  account  with  him,  readily  admitted  that  it 
was,  and  this  gracious  acquiescence  misled 
Piney. 

"Do  I  understand,  then,"  said  the  adven- 
turer, "that  now  an'  here  you  refuses  to  trust 
me  for  a  poke  of  tobacco!" 

"I  do."  Ned  Smith's  voice  was  very  low. 
He  seemed  to  have  lost  his  courage,  and  for 
the  moment  to  be  on  the  point  of  relent- 
ing. "It  ain't  that  I've  anything  agin  you, 
Piney,"  he  went  on,  pleading  like  a  man  in  the 

75 


SIX  STAKS 

wrong,  "but  it  don't  seem  right  to  encourage 
you.  Here  you  are  lettin'  your  clearin'  go  to 
rack  an'  ruin,  livin'  over  in  the  mountains,  dig- 
gin'  an'  diggin'  like  a  crazy  man.  It's  gold — 
gold — gold!  Every  time  you  comes  back  you 
looks  poorer  an'  peekiter.  The  weeds  has 
choked  your  clearin';  Harmon  Barefoot  him- 
self is  feedin'  your  cow;  Willie  Calker's  had 
to  sing  bass  in  the  choir  all  winter — an'  him 
only  fourteen — all  because  you  think  you'll  find 
a  mine  an'  make  yourself  a  for-tune." 

Lucien  Killowill  wagged  his  head  and  beat 
the  floor  with  his  cane,  thus  expressing  what 
he  dared  not  with  his  voice.  The  worthies  of 
the  bench  were  with  him  to  a  man,  and  half 
a  dozen  heads  rocked  in  unison  with  his.  From 
that  bench  Solomon  Holloberger  arose  slowly, 
with  a  dignity  that  became  a  preacher  of  the 
Word  and  the  most  eloquent  speaker  in  the 
Dunker  meeting  for  many  miles  around.  He 
shuffled  to  the  stove,  and,  wheeling  about,  faced 
the  misguided  man,  who,  now  at  bay,  backed 
toward  the  door  again,  and  leaned  on  one  of  the 
sentinel  oil-cloth  rolls. 

"Gold  is  a  deceiver,"  said  the  preacher,  in 


THE  SNYDEE  COUNTY  GOLD-STRIKE 

measured  tones.  "The  Good  Book  tells  us  that 
in  many  places,  Piney  Cridle.  Don't  you  mind 
how  it  says  'Gold  is  a  mocker'?  Lay  not  up 
riches  in  this  world,  but  put  your  faith  in  that 
to  come.  Oh,  that  I  had  your  young  years! 
Would  I  be  wastin'  'em  over  in  them  Snyder 
County  mountains,  diggin'  an*  diggin',  sellin' 
meself  to  Satan  f  er  a  mess  o '  pottage  ?  Never ! 
I'd  spend  them  blessed  years  goin'  from  house 
to  house,  from  walley  to  walley,  workin'  in  the 
harvest,  gatherin'  in  the  brands  from  the  burn- 
in'.  You  needn't  laugh,  Piney  Cridle.  The 
day '11  come  when  you'll  look  back  on  this  wery 
time;  when,  tossin'  on  your  bed  o'  suffering 
with  all  your  gold  piled  around  you,  you'll  cry 
out,  'Oh,  had  I  only  minded  Brother  Holloberg- 
er's  warnin'P  : 

"It  ain't  so  much  that,"  broke  in  Ned 
Smith,  in  a  dry,  commercial  tone.  "I  wasn't 
thinkin'  so  much  about  sellin'  himself  to  Satan, 
perwidin'  he  got  cash  down.  What  bothers  me 
is  that  there  ain't  no  gold  in  Snyder  County." 

"How  do  you  know?"  demanded  Piney. 

"All  the  regular  gold  comes  from  Calif  or- 
ny,"  cried  Killowill.  "All  my  life  I've  been 


SIX  STARS 

hearin'  about  folks  findin'  gold  in  Pennsyl- 
wany,  an',  as  fur  as  I  know,  nothin'  has  ever 
yet  panned  out." 

"But  why  shouldn't  there  be  gold  in  Snyder 
Country?"  Piney  was  in  a  defiant  mood,  and 
he  waved  his  forefinger  at  the  group  at  the 
stove,  and  closed  his  jaw  with  a  snap. 

Lucien  pushed  himself  into  the  obscurity  of- 
fered by  the  broad  form  of  Andrew  Rickaback, 
and  turned  an  appealing  eye  to  Brother  Hollo- 
berger.  What  the  store  needed  was  a  man  of 
science.  Lacking  that,  it  had  to  turn  in  its  ex- 
tremity to  the  theologian.  Brother  Solomon 
was  not  to  be  confounded.  In  truth,  he  always 
gloried  in  what  he  termed  "tight  pints,"  and, 
as  compared  to  the  problem  of  Jonah  and  the 
whale,  which  he  had  solved  years  ago,  the  ques- 
tion propounded  by  this  wayward  son  of  Six 
Stars  was  childlike. 

"When  Adam  an'  Eve  was  put  out  of  the 
Garden  of  Eden,  Piney  Cridle,"  he  said,  "it 
was  ordered  that  hencefor'a'd  mankind  should 
live  be  the  sweat  of  their  brow.  Sech  bein'  the 
case,  it  ain't  likely  the  Almighty  would  plant 
gold  mines  every  here  an'  there,  so  as  they'd  be 

78 


THE  SNYDEE  COUNTY  GOLD-STRIKE 

handy  to  git  at.  No,  sir.  Snyder  County  would 
'a'  spoiled  the  whole  plan.  Calif orny  is  about 
the  hardest  place  to  git  to  they  is.'*  The 
preacher  paused  a  moment  to  let  this  point 
sink  deep  in  the  minds  of  his  hearers.  Then 
he  added:  "There's  gold  in  Calif  orny." 

" That's  the  plainest  I  ever  hear  it  put," 
cried  Lucien  Killowill,  coming  into  view  once 
more. 

"Yes,  it  is  pretty  fair,"  said  Piney,  undis- 
turbed. "How  about  the  Calif ornians  though? 
I  s'pose  they  has  to  work  their  way  back  to 
Pennsylwany  to  git  their  gold." 

Preacher  Holloberger 's  theology  failed  him 
for  the  moment,  and,  while  he  was  searching 
the  floor  for  an  idea  of  any  kind  with  which  to 
meet  this  impious  adversary,  Ned  Smith  in- 
terrupted the  discussion. 

"It  ain't  so  much  whether  there  is  gold  there 
or  not,  Piney,"  he  said.  "Mebbe  they  is,  but 
what  are  you  comin'  to,  huntin'  fer  it?  A  year 
ago  an'  there  wasn't  a  popularer  man  than  you 
in  all  our  walley.  You  never  had  much,  to  be 
sure,  but  you  could  git  a  livin'  outen  that  clearin' 
your  pap  left  you.  An' now  look  at  you!  Jest 

79 


SIX  STARS 

look  at  you!  Mackinaw  jacket  as  ain't  fit  fer  a 
horse  to  wear;  boots  jest  held  together  he  the 
soles;  hair  so  long  that  you  might  pass  fer  an 
Amishman;  clearin'  all  overgrowed  with  bri- 
ers; your  wery  cow  picked  off  en  the  roads  be 
Harmon  Barefoot!  S'posin'  you  does  find  a 
mine — is  it  worth  it ?  Is  it  worth  all  them  win- 
ter days  over  there  in  the  mountain  diggin'  an' 
diggin'  all  alone?  Is  it  worth  all  them  lonely, 
shiverin'  nights  in  the  woods?" 

"Is  it  worth  it!"  Piney  cried.  "Huh!  is  it 
worth  it?"  He  turned  to  the  door  again  and 
seized  the  knob.  "You  uns  think  I'm  crazy, 
because  I've  got  idees  beyant  a  clearin'.  Meb- 
be  I'm  wrong.  Mebbe  some  day  I'll  come  back 
an'  clean  away  the  briers,  an'  plant  a  crop  be- 
tween the  stones  agin,  an'  go  on  jest  livin'. 
But  mebbe  some  day  I'll  come  back,  an'  I'll 
come  in  a  side-bar  buggy  with  a  slick  horse, 
an'  I'll  have  a  cady  hat  an'  a  Prince  Al-bert 
instead  of  this  coonskin  and  mackinaw.  I'll 
buy  five-cent  se-gars  instead  of  askin'  tick  on  a 
poke  o*  tobacco.  I'll  have  a  house  with  a  por- 
tico, an*  hand  paintin's,  an'  statues,  an*  a  melo- 
<dium.  Mebbe  all  that  '11  happen.  Then  you  all 

80 


THE  SNYDEB  COUNTY  GOLD-STRIKE 

will  shake  your  heads  an'  say  you  allus  knowd 
Piney  Cridle  was  a  slick  one.  You  laugh  now, 
an' preach  at  me.  You  otter  wait." 

So  Piney  Cridle  went  defiantly  on  his  way. 
The  sharp  wind  clutched  at  his  throat ;  the  door 
banged  behind  him,  shutting  him  from  the 
bright  stove-lit  circle;  on  the  valley's  edge  be- 
fore him  arose  the  gloomy  mountains,  capped 
with  the  gray  hail-cloud.  His  honor  demanded 
it.  He  would  never  return  to  plant  a  crop  amid 
the  stones  of  his  clearing,  or  to  claim  the  cow 
that  Harmon  Barefoot  had  rescued  from  the 
roads.  When  he  came  again  it  would  be  in  a 
side-bar  buggy,  and  all  Six  Stars  would  do 
him  homage.  When  he  came  again  he  would 
drive  right  to  the  gate  of  the  Killowill  home 
and  carry  off  the  daughter  of  the  house  under 
the  very  nose  of  her  spiteful  father.  But  Pet 
might  be  married  then!  Harmon  Barefoot 's 
rigging  was  hitched  at  the  gate  that  very  mo- 
ment, and  Piney  paused  on  the  bridge  below 
the  mill  and  leaned  against  the  stone  side-wall, 
while  he  inspected  it.  Even  now  the  girl  and 
Harmon  might  be  peeking  through  the  window 
laughing  at  him.  When  he  came  again  she 

81 


SIX  STABS 

might  be  Mrs.  Harmon  Barefoot !   Well  enough ! 
She  would  know,  at  least,  what  she  had  lost. 

They  say  in  Six  Stars  that  that  is  the  last 
picture  they  have  of  the  old  Piney  Cridle — of 
the  Piney  Cridle  the  village  had  known  since 
the  days  when  he  used  to  bring  the  eggs  to  the 
store  from  the  clearing  on  the  ridge-side ;  of  the 
lanky  fellow  the  village  should  have  loved  for 
his  gentle  strength,  his  shiftless  charity  and 
boundless  humor.  There  he  stood  in  the  bitter 
wind,  leaning  over  the  bridge  wall,  gazing  into 
the  stream.  That  had  been  a  curious  habit  of 
his,  ever  since  he  first  toddled  down  from  the 
clearing.  A  bit  of  tumbling  water,  a  white 
cloud,  a  shadow  on  the  mountain-side  would 
hold  his  gaze  for  hours.  Some  in  the  village 
said  that  it  was  only  the  natural  laziness  of 
the  Cridles,  showing  even  to  the  fourth  gener- 
ation; some  declared  boldly  that  Piney  was 
more  than  an  ordinary  man,  and  that  when  he 
studied  the  ripples  in  the  stream  or  the  castles 
in  the  clouds,  he  was  seeing  "beyond;"  some 
had  held  their  peace  and  tapped  their  foreheads 
and  looked  wise.  Then  Piney  had  shouldered 
his  pick  and  gone  forth  to  fight  his  way  clear 

82 


THE  SNYDER  COUNTY  GOLD-STRIKE 

of  the  ridge-side  patch,  with  its  stones,  its  bri- 
ers and  its  weeds.  Twice  he  had  come  back, 
each  time  looking  more  wan  and  unkempt,  so 
that  the  wise  ones  could  tap  their  foreheads 
more  sharply  and  proclaim  aloud  in  the  store 
what  they  had  always  known.  At  that  very  mo- 
ment they  were  doing  it,  and  a  merry  time  they 
were  having  in  the  cheer  of  the  glowing  stove, 
while  he  leaned  over  the  bridge,  watching  the 
icy  stream.  Perhaps  they  were  right ;  perhaps 
there  was  no  gold  in  Snyder  County;  perhaps 
he  was  a  fool,  but  he  would  come  again  to  Six 
Stars.  Piney  smiled.  Stretching  himself  to 
his  full  lank  six  feet  two,  he  turned  to  the  store 
for  a  last  look.  The  corners  of  his  mouth 
twitched  just  a  trifle,  and  his  eyes  narrowed. 
He  raised  his  fist  to  shake  it  in  a  laughing 
threat.  He  started.  Pet  Killowill  was  watch- 
ing him,  and  he  waved  his  hand  to  her  instead. 
Then  he  took  up  the  way  once  more. 

That  was  the  last  they  saw  of  the  old  Piney 
Cridle. 

Winter  came  and  passed.  The  last  white 
patch  of  snow  had  melted  into  the  freshening 
hill-sides;  one  enterprising  hen  was  proudly 

83 


SIX  STARS 

showing  her  three  bedraggled  offspring  the 
way  about  the  village,  while  old  man  Killowill, 
sunning  himself  on  the  store  porch,  discussed 
the  heavy  mortality  among  the  "airly  chick- 
ens'*; the  gentle  tap-tap-tap  from  the  cobbler's 
shop  across  the  way  showed  that  Andrew  Rick- 
aback  had  opened  his  window  at  last,  and  was 
pounding  in  the  pegs  with  a  vigor  new-born  of 
the  balmy  April  air.  The  village  was  awaken- 
ing from  its  winter's  sleep.  It  was  rubbing  its 
eyes  and  sitting  up.  Then  Piney  Cridle  came 
to  shake  it  rudely  from  its  slumber.  He  came 
as  old  man  Killowill  was  in  the  midst  of  his 
discourse  on  the  store  porch;  as  Andrew  Rick- 
aback  was  tap-tap-tapping  to  the  time  of  an  old 
war  tune;  as  Solomon  Holloberger  sat  in  his 
kitchen,  an  open  Bible  across  his  knees,  his  eyes 
intently  watching  his  young  tomato  plants 
sprouting  from  a  starch-box,  while  two  kittens 
hurdled  to  and  fro  across  his  feet.  He  came 
in  a  side-bar  buggy. 

Piney  Cridle 's  mare  was  the  finest  Six  Stars 
had  ever  seen.  She  was  a  long,  slender  trotter, 
with  very  thin  legs,  and  her  head  was  carried 
high  in  check,  so  that  her  nose  kept  poking 

84 


THE  SNYDER  COUNTY  GOLD-STRIKE 

gracefully  ahead  of  her  at  every  step.  Boots 
guarding  all  her  fetlocks  gave  a  further  hint 
of  her  value,  though  nothing  more  convincing 
of  that  was  needed  than  the  way  she  pawed  the 
air  when  the  buggy  drew  up  before  the  store. 
Piney  just  nodded  to  Lucien  Killowill  and  his 
cronies,  waved  a  hand  to  Ned  Smith,  tossed 
reins  about  the  whip  and  leaped  to  the  road. 
After  he  had  walked  twice  around  the  trotter, 
critically  inspecting  her,  he  led  her  to  the  long 
rail  and  hitched.  Then,  wonder  of  wonders !  he 
came  up  the  store  steps,  drawing  off  a  yellow 
kid  glove. 

"Pleasant  weather  we  are  having,"  he  said 
cheerily.  ' '  I  had  hoped  for  a  spell  of  rain  about 
this  time.  Rain  allus  helps  the  farmers,  doesn't 
it?" 

"It  does,"  said  Lucien  Killowill  solemnly. 
"But  see  here,  Piney " 

"Jest  a  moment,  please."  Piney  waved  a 
gloved  hand  very  politely,  but  still  insistently. 
"I've  some  leetle  business  I  want  to  settle  first 
with  Mr.  Smith."  He  drew  forth  a  roll  of 
bills  and  looked  inquiringly  at  Ned.  "Five, 
ten  or  twenty — I  can't  recollect  I" 

85 


SIX  STARS 

"Only  four  ninety-six,"  the  storekeeper 
stammered.  "See  here,  though,  you  needn't 
mind  payin'  it  now.  I  never " 

"I  insist,"  said  Piney. 

Ned  was  moving  backward  from  the  pres- 
ence. Waving  a  note,  Cridle  followed  him. 
After  them,  from  the  porch,  into  the  store,  hob- 
bled old  man  Killowill  and  his  cronies,  Solo- 
mon Holloberger,  breathless  with  running, 
bringing  up  the  rear.  "I  insist,"  said  Piney 
again,  and  he  tossed  the  bill  on  the  counter. 

Ned  took  it  and  laid  down  four  pennies  in 
change,  but  Mr.  Cridle 's  eyes  were  not  strong 
enough  to  see  coins  of  such  small  denomination. 
He  deliberately  turned  his  back  on  them,  and, 
gathering  up  the  tails  of  his  Prince  Albert,  sat 
down  on  the  only  solid  chair  in  the  place. 

"Mebbe  you  have  some  good  se-gars,"  he 
said  carelessly  over  his  shoulder. 

"I've  a  very  fine  two-fer,"  returned  the 
storekeeper,  rather  apologetically. 

"Come,  come,"  said  Mr.  Cridle,  laughing 
and  waving  his  hands  about  the  company,  *  *  do 
you  s 'pose  I'm  goin'  to  buy  these  gentlemen 
two-fers?  I  want  five-cent  se-gars." 

80 


THE  SNYDEE  COUNTY  GOLD-STRIKE 

This  demand  was  fairly  thundered  at  poor 
Smith.  He  was  now  thoroughly  intimidated, 
and  lost  no  time  in  getting  a  step-ladder  and 
climbing  to  his  topmost  shelf.  Somewhere  be- 
hind a  wall  of  glass  and  crockery  he  found 
a  box  which  he  handed  meekly  to  his  arrogant 
customer. 

"It's  my  treat,  boys,"  said  Piney,  passing 
the  cigars  around.  "I'm  sorry  they  ain't  bet- 
ter, as  it's  not  often  I've  a  chance  to  set  you 
uns  all  up.  There's  a  dollar,  Smith.  Take  a 
se-gar  yourself,  an'  I'll  put  four  in  me  pocket — 
that  makes  an  even  eighty-five  cents.  Now,  as 
I  was  sayin' " 

"So  you've  found  a  mine  after  all — well — 
well — well — but  that  is  fine!"  Solomon  Hol- 
loberger  had  pushed  to  the  front  and  was 
holding  out  both  hands.  "I  congratulate  you, 
Piney.  You  deserves  it.  You " 

"I  guess  I  do,"  returned  the  young  man,  al- 
lowing the  preacher  to  shake  just  two  fingers. 
Then,  by  a  sudden  thought,  he  turned  to  the 
storekeeper.  "Let  the  children  have  the  change 
in  mint-sticks,"  he  said. 

"Now,  Piney,  I'd  an  idee  all  the  while  that 
87 


SIX  STABS 

yon  knowd,"  said  Lucien,  lighting  his  cigar 
and  taking  one  long,  delicious  puff.  "  There 
was  somethin'  about  you  all  the  time  that  give 
me  the  belief  you  had  drumpt  where  the  gold 
was.  I  'm  right,  now,  ain  't  I V ' 

"I  allow  you  ain't,"  replied  Piney  bruskly, 
tossing  his  cigar  into  the  coal-scuttle,  although 
it  had  hardly  begun  to  burn,  and  lighting  an- 
other complacently. 

Killowill  retired  behind  Andrew  Bickaback. 
The  cobbler  was  beaming  all  over,  a  condition 
rather  unusual  for  him,  as  he  is  by  nature  a 
gloomy,  taciturn  man.  Now  he  disclosed  the 
cause  of  his  joy. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  my  tract  in  them  Snyder 
County  mountains  joins  right  on  to  the  one 
your  pap  left  you,  don't  it,  Piney?" 

"It  does,"  replied  Cridle.  "That's  a  fine 
tract,  too.  You  otter  look  after  it  more." 

This  was  a  hint  that  rejoiced  the  cobbler's 
soul.  He,  too,  was  having  visions  of  side-bar 
buggies,  and  trotting  horses,  and  melodious. 

"Ned,  Ned,"  he  cried  in  sudden  excite- 
ment, "git  Mr.  Cridle  one  of  them  five-cent  se- 


gars." 


88 


THE  SNYDER  COUNTY  GOLD-STRIKE 

Smith,  being  a  man  of  sober  judgment,  hes- 
itated, but  the  cobbler  arose  from  the  bench 
and  shouted,  "Can't  you  hear  me — a  five-cent 
se-gar  for  Mr.  Cridle." 

Piney  accepted  the  attention  politely. 

"You  otter  look  after  your  tract,"  he  said. 
"An*  you,  Preacher  Holloberger,  haven't  you 
a  bit  of  property  next  mine  in  the  north?" 

Solomon  whistled.  It  was  a  long,  low  wail- 
ing note,  and  when  his  breath  failed  him,  he 
sank  down  on  the  bench  and  began  to  fan  him- 
self with  his  Dunker  hat. 

"I  sold  it  to  a  saw-mill  man  last  month,"  he 
gasped. 

"I  told  you — I  told  you!"  Lucien  Killowill 
had  never  been  a  property-holder  in  the  moun- 
tains, and  what  he  suffered  in  hearing  of  An- 
drew Eickaback's  great  good  luck  had  its  balm 
in  the  absurd  bargain  of  his  intimate  enemy,  the 
preacher.  "Jest  last  month  I  told  you  uns  to 
hold  on.  I  sayd  all  along  you  otter  wait  till  you 
heard  from  Piney  yander. ' ' 

Solomon  turned  angrily  on  Cridle.  "Why 
didn't  you  send  me  word?"  he  cried.  "You 
might  'a'  dropped  me  a  postal." 

89 


SIX  STARS 

"Now,  I'm  sorry,  Preacher,  really  I  am." 
There  was  a  touch  of  regret  in  the  young  man's 
voice.  "Still,  you  know,  I  was  mindin'  your 
warnin'.  Didn't  you  say  gold  was  a  mocker?" 

"I  sayd  the  Good  Book  sayd  it,"  retorted 
Solomon. 

"Well,  then,  that  there  was  a  mistake  of 
mine,  now  wasn't  it?"  Piney  appealed  to  the 
rest  of  the  company  to  condemn  him  as  he  de- 
served; but  the  cigars  had  had  a  wonderful 
effect,  and  in  all  the  long  line  on  the  counter 
there  was  not  an  accusing  eye. 

"It's  terrible  to  cause  others  suffering' '  he 
went  on;  "but  when  you  know  I  didn't  mean  it, 
when  you  know  I  miscal'lated  what  you  was 
drivin'  at,  you  won't  be  hard  on  me,  will  you, 
Preacher?" 

"You  otter  'a*  sent  me  a  postal,"  snapped 
Solomon. 

Andrew  Rickaback  had  made  it  evident  by 
many  sage  winks  where  he  stood  in  this  con- 
troversy over  Piney 's  inconsiderateness  of 
others. 

"It's  only  natural  you  wouldn't  have  time 
to  think  of  them  things,"  he  declared  softly. 

90 


THE  SNYDEE  COUNTY  GOLD-STRIKE 

"By  the  way,  though,  how  does  the  vein  run! 
I  should  jedge  that  naturally  it  'ud  foller  along 
the  mountain,  or  mebbe  it  splits  up  in  all  di- 
rections. Am  I  right ! ' ' 

"If  I  could  tell  you  I  would,"  was  the  reply. 
"There  ain't  nobody  I'd  rather  tell  it  to  than 
you,  Andrew,  if  I  could;  but  that's  a  pint  I  ain't 
follered  out  yit." 

"Didn't  your  diggin'  give  you  some  idee  of 
the  general  direction?  Didn't  it " 

To  Lucien  Killowill's  mind  the  world  was 
going  entirely  too  smoothly  with  Piney  Cridle. 
It  was  high  time  that  there  should  be  injected 
into  the  general  chorus  of  adulation  some  little 
discordant  note  that  would  bring  the  young  man 
to  a  sense  of  the  hollowness  of  riches.  Solo- 
mon Holloberger  had  been  completely  crushed 
and  was  sitting  in  silence,  wiggling  one  foot 
very  vigorously  and  chewing  a  match-stick,  so 
in  his  gloomy  mood  he  did  not  make  an  at- 
tractive butt  for  the  old  man's  cutting  humor. 
Andrew's  high  spirits  were  proof  against  any 
attack.  Piney,  in  the  glory  of  his  derby  and 
Prince  Albert,  tilted  back  on  two  legs  of  his 
chair  carelessly  twirling  a  fine  cigar;  Piney,  in 

91 


SIX  STARS 

the  full  of  that  great  white  light  the  rich  so 
love  to  have  heat  upon  them,  offered  a  very 
large  mark  for  ammunition  such  as  Killowill 
had  stored  in  his  narrow  head. 

"Mebbe  you  haven't  heard  about  Pet,"  began 
the  old  man,  blocking  the  cobbler's  quest  for 
information. 

"About  Pet?"  Piney 's  chair  came  down  on 
all  four  legs.  "What  about  Pet?" 

"She's  likely  to  marry  Harmon  Barefoot," 
answered  Lucien,  rubbing  his  hands. 

Piney  swung  back  against  the  counter  and 
took  a  long  puff.  '  *  Is  that  all  ? "  he  drawled. 

"Ain't  it  enough?"  cried  Killowill.  "Why, 
they've  been  settin'  up  regular  all  winter,  him 
and  her.  He 's  give  her  an  accordine. ' ' 

"I  wish  'em  happiness,"  said  Piney  cheer- 
fully. "It's  a  pity  she  couldn't  do  better  than 
Harmon  Barefoot,  though,  fer  she's  a  pretty 
girl,  she  is,  an*  there  was  a  time  when  I  might 
'a*  married  her  myself.  But  Harmon  is  one 
of  them  fellers  that  '11  never  have  nothin'  unless 
it's  willed  to  him." 

This  contemptuous  reference  to  the  son-in- 
law  he  was  likely  to  have  angered  Killowill. 

92 


THE  SNYDER  COUNTY  GOLD-STEIKE 

He  climbed  to  his  feet  and  thumped  the  floor 
with  his  cane  and  tried  to  unburden  his  feel- 
ings in  words.  For  the  moment  words  would 
not  come.  In  his  anger  he  dropped  his  cigar 
and  tramped  on  it,  which  served  further  to  en- 
rage him. 

' '  See  here,  Piney  Cridle, ' '  he  began. 

Piney  was  on  his  feet. 

"Take  another  se-gar,"  he  said,  "an'  don't 
git  all  het  up,  Lucien.  I  was  only  joshin'.  Tell 
Harmon  that  when  they're  married  he  can  have 
my  cow.  Tell  Pet  I'll  send  'em  a  nice  cut-glass 
water-pitcher — do  you  hear — tell  her  that.  You 
might  tell  her  I'd  'a'  called  to-day  only  I  was 
drivin'  through  on  my  way  to  Pleasantville  an' 
stopped  longer  than  I  had  otter — tell  her  that. ' ' 
Piney  pulled  on  one  of  the  yellow  gloves  and 
lighted  another  cigar.  "Tell  her  I  hope  she'll 
marry  Harmon, ' '  he  added. 

With  that  he  left  them.  From  the  side-bar 
buggy  he  waved  the  derby,  held  in  a  gloved 
hand.  The  glossy  trotter  swung  into  her  stride, 
and  in  a  moment  scurried  around  the  bend  at 
the  end  of  the  village. 

Hardly  a  week  passed  till  Piney  Cridle  came 
93 


SIX  STARS 

again  to  Six  Stars.  He  came  in  his  old  mack- 
inaw  jacket  and  coonskin  cap  this  time.  He 
came  afoot,  and  found  Ned  Smith  alone  in 
the  store. 

"Where's  the  boys!"  he  asked,  tossing  on 
the  counter  a  large  bundle  wrapped  in  news- 
papers. 

"Where's  the  cady  an*  the  Prince  Albert!" 
returned  Ned,  puzzled  by  the  change  in  his  old 
friend. 

Piney  tapped  the  bundle  lovingly.  ' '  There, ' ' 
he  answered.  "Don't  touch  it.  You'll  wrinkle 
'em." 

"Where's  your  trotter!"  demanded  Ned. 

' '  My  trotter ! ' '  Piney  laughed  long  and  loud. 
"What  made  you  think  I  owned  a  trottin' 
horse!" 

"Well,  if  it  wasn't  you  unsez  whose  was  it!" 
cried  Smith  angrily. 

Some  minutes  passed  before  Piney  could 
speak.  He  sat  down  and  rubbed  his  face  in  his 
coonskin  cap,  and  rocked  to  and  fro  in  his 
chair. 

"That  mare  belonged  to  my  boss,"  he  said 
at  last. 

94 


THE  SNYDEE  COUNTY  GOLD-STRIKE 

Slowly  the  storekeeper  backed  out  from  his 
post  behind  the  counter,  until  he  stood  menac- 
ingly over  the  gleeful  Cridle. 

' '  Your  boss !"  he  exclaimed.  ' '  I  thought  you 
had  a  mine. ' ' 

"Whoever  sayd  I  had  a  mine?"  Piney  re- 
torted. "You  never  heard  me  say  I  had  a 
mine." 

Ned  thought  a  minute,  and  then  shook  his 
head  very  slowly. 

"I   mind   now,   you   didn't,"   he   admitted. 
"But  the  money  an'  the  se-gars?" 

"I  worked  all  last  winter  in  a  saw-mill." 

"Mighty  souls!"  With  this  heart-born  ex- 
clamation Smith  sat  down  on  the  bench  and 
stared  at  his  friend. 

"Where's  the  boys?"  demanded  Piney. 
"Where's  Lucien,  an'  Preacher  Holloberger, 
an'  all  them?" 

"Diggin'  gold,"  was  the  solemn  answer. 

Piney  drew  a  cigar  from  his  pocket  and 
lighted  it.  "This  here's  jest  a  plain  penny 
one, ' '  he  explained.  "  I  Ve  give  up  them  expens- 
ive luxuries. ' ' 

Smith's  head  was  wagging  ominously. 
95 


SIX  STARS 

"I  s'pose  they've  gone  to  Snyder  County," 
said  Piney,  after  a  long  silence. 

"Right,"  Ned  answered.  "They  started 
the  day  after  you  was  here — the  whole  of  'em. 
Andrew  Rickaback  had  laid  out  to  open  up  his 
property  adjoinin'  yours,  an'  Solomon,  havin' 
sold  his  tract,  started  a  general  prospectin' 
firm  with  the  idee  of  findin'  a  vein  an'  buyin' 
an'  operatin'  on  shares." 

"Who's  in  the  firm?"  inquired  the  other 
softly. 

"They  called  it  Holloberger,  Killowill  an' 
Barefoot." 

"Poor  fellers,  poor  fellers!"  murmured 
Piney.  He  arose,  and  stepping  to  the  door, 
took  his  post  by  the  sentinel  oil-cloth  rolls. 
"Think  of  'em,  Ned;  think  of  'em — their  clear- 
in 's  choked  up  with  weeds,  their  cows  wander- 
in'  loose  around  the  roads.  S'pose  they  does 
find  a  mine — is  it  worth  it?  Is  it  worth  all 
them  days  of  diggin'  an'  diggin' ?  Is  it  worth  all 
them  wet  Aprile  nights  over  in  the  mountains  ? 
Is  it  worth  all  the  sorrer  an'  the  sufferin?  Is  it 
worth  it,  I  says?" 

"You'd  otter  quit  your  joshin',  Piney 
96 


THE  SNYDER  COUNTY  GOLD-STRIKE 

Cridle,"  cried  Smith  angrily;  "you  done  it — 
you  know  you  did. ' ' 

"Ned,"  Piney  answered,  "you  never  was 
drove  outen  the  store  be  scorn  an'  sermons, 
was  you?  You  mind  that  day  when  they  all 
laughed  so  at  me?  You  uns  thought  I  didn't  feel 
it.  You  uns  thought  Piney  Cridle  was  a  poor 
simple-minded  fool,  didn't  you?  That's  the 
way  I  felt  myself,  an'  I  stopped  down  there  on 
the  bridge  to  stedy  it  over.  As  I  was  stedyin'  I 
happened  to  look  up,  an'  there  in  the  second- 
story  winder  was  Pet  Killowill  a-peekin'  at 
me.  I  knowd  Harmon  Barefoot  was  settin' 
in  the  kitchen.  You  otter  'a '  seen  Pet  Killowill 
then  as  I  seen  her,  a-lookin '  my  way  so  sorrow- 
ful. It  was  time  I  was  up  an'  doin'.  I'd  rather 
have  her  than  all  the  gold  in  Snyder  County, 
says  I,  Ned.  An'  I  took  jest  one  long  look, 
an'  then  I  waved  my  hand  an'  set  out  for  the 
mountain.  All  last  winter,  when  you  an'  Lucien 
an'  the  Preacher  pictured  me  a-diggin'  an'  dig- 
gin',  I  was  gittin'  a  dollar  a  day  in  a  saw-mill. 
Now  I'm  back  agin.  I  come  in  a  side-bar  buggy, 
but  it  was  my  boss's,  an'  I  was  takin'  it  down 
to  the  big  walley  fer  him.  I  come  in  a  cady 

97 


SIX  STAKS 

hat  an*  a  Prince  Al-bert  because  I  bought  'em 
fer  my  weddin'.  There  they  are  now — in  that 
bundle.  Mebbe  you  wouldn't  mind  keepin'  'em 
fer  me  a  while, till  I  run  down  an'  see  Pet.  Poor 
girl!  left  all  alone  while  her  pap  an'  Harmon 
goes  a-huntin'  gold.  Mebbe  I'll  run  up  to  the 
clearin'  an'  open  the  house,  an'  then  slip  over 
to  Barefoot 's  an'  git  my  cow." 

Piney  turned  to  the  door  and  went  whistling 
out.  At  the  steps  he  halted. 

"Ned,"  he  called  back,  "mebbe  to-morrow 
you'll  go  with  me  to  the  mountains  to  gather 
in  a  few  of  them  brands  from  the  burnin'." 


98 


THE  ADMIEABLE  WHOOPLE. 

IN  all  our  valley  there  is  no  man  so  agreeable 
as  Stacy  Whoople,  none  so  accomplished, 
none  so  versatile.  One  might  be  inclined  to  add, 
none  so  handsome ;  but  the  truth  is  the  Pleasant- 
ville  tailor  has  been  more  lavish  in  his  gifts  to 
Stacy  than  Nature  in  hers.  Figure  a  bit  too 
spare?  Hair  a  trifle  thin  and  dank?  What 
are  they  when  hidden  beneath  the  graceful 
folds  of  a  black  Prince  Albert  and  a  dash- 
ing pearl  fedora  ?  In  all  our  valley  there  is  no 
voice  so  deep,  so  full,  so  big  as  his,  and  yet  so 
soft ;  no  fiddle  that  can  sing  like  his  from  sunset 
to  sunrise;  no  arm  so  strong  at  swinging  cor- 
ners; no  feet  so  light  at  "chassey  all."  When 
a  rifle  barks  just  once  on  Gander  Eidge  and  the 
dogs  stop  their  baying,  they  say  in  the  store, 
"  Stacy's  shootin'."  When  a  light  burns  late 
in  the  window  at  the  end  of  the  village  street, 
they  say,  "Stacy's  sets  late  a-stedyin'."  For 
Stacy  is  a  scholar. 


SIX  STABS 

The  Admirable  Whoople !  Witness  what  the 
women  of  our  valley  say  of  him.  It  is  written 
in  black  and  white,  in  dots  and  dashes  and  curls 
in  Miss  Emily  Hannaberry 's  note-book,  that 
skeleton  in  our  valley's  closet,  that  repository 
of  so  much  we  would  have  left  unsaid.  Miss 
Hannaberry  is  a  most  estimable  woman.  But 
few  of  us  would  raise  a  voice  against  her,  and 
for  those  few  the  inspiration  would  not  be  the 
good  woman  herself,  but  her  ambition  and  her 
note-book.  It  was  her  ambition  that  led  her  to 
the  study  of  stenography,  so  her  note-book  was 
her  constant  companion.  Forth  it  came  when- 
ever two  or  three  were  gathered  together,  and 
speech  ceased  with  us  to  be  a  vehicle  for  the 
conveyance  of  ideas  from  man  to  man;  it  be- 
came merely  a  means  by  which  Miss  Emily  was 
to  obtain  practice  in  speed,  in  accuracy  and  in 
neatness.  Now  the  women  of  our  valley  can 
not  deny  those  thoughtless  words  regarding 
Stacy  Whoople.  That  would  reflect  on  Miss 
Hannaberry 's  accuracy  and  clearness.  Wit- 
ness them,  then. 

It  was  at  a  meeting  of  the  Sisters  of  the 
Heathen,  about  a  year  ago,  according  to  Miss 

100 


THE  ADMIEABLE  WHOOPLE 

Emily's  record,  and  some  months  before  the 
advent  of  Ehoda  Bunting  into  the  life  of  Six 
Stars,  that  there  was  raised  in  praise  of  Stacy 
Whoople  every  voice  in  our  valley  that  would 
bring  a  tingle  to  the  ears  of  a  man  in  whose 
veins  ran  red  blood.  We  skip  that  part  of  the 
Hannaberry  notes  bearing  on  the  barrel  of 
blankets  and  garments  in  course  of  packing  for 
Africa,  and  we  find  that  A.  M.  C.  (meaning 
Annie  May  Carter)  said,  "He  is  certainly  the 
tastiest  dresser  in  the  county."  To  this  re- 
joins S.  L.  (presumably  Sarah  Larker),  "It's 
a  treat  to  hear  him  sing. ' '  More  about  Central 
Africa,  and  Martha  Killowill  exclaims,  with 
much  asperity,  "He's  entirely  too  good  for 
her ! ' '  Who  this  inferior  person  was  the  record 
does  not  disclose,  but  we  have  here  a  hint  that 
at  this  time  Stacy  was  paying  rather  assiduous 
attention  to  some  one.  So  Lizzie  Bawkis  thinks, 
for  at  the  conclusion  of  her  report  on  the  famine 
in  India  we  find  her  exclaiming,  "It  'ud  be  a 
shame  for  such  a  pretty  man  as  him  to  marry 
a  girl  as  is  naturally  so  plain."  Some  one  de- 
clares that  the  mysterious  "she"  is  an  elegant 
housekeeper,  but  all  women  are  thus  divinely 

101 


SIX  STARS 

gifted,  and  a  chorus  of  exclamation  points,  as 
Miss  Emily  describes  the  outburst,  greets  this 
assertion. 

"To  think,"  cries  A.  M.  C.,  "of  her  as  was 
raised  in  Slender  Gut  even  dreamin'  of  movin' 
into  the  finest  house  in  town!"  Impossible,  in- 
deed! "What  would  his  ma  say,  was  she  alive, 
with  such  a  dotter-in-law  to  handle  all  them  fine 
old  Whoople  hairlooms?"  Lizzie  Bawkis  ex- 
claims. 

But  Mrs.  Whoople 's  long  rest  was  never  dis- 
turbed by  such  earthly  calamities.  The  mys- 
terious girl  so  disapproved  by  the  Sisters  of 
the  Heathen  was  but  one  of  Stacy's  passing 
fancies,  as  many  of  those  very  Sisters  had  been, 
and  as  they  hoped  to  be  again;  for  Stacy  was 
fickle.  Eminently  fitted  for  love-making,  he  was 
preeminently  unfit  for  matrimony.  What  wife 
will  listen  to  a  husband's  songs?  The  wail  of 
the  fiddle  awakens  the  baby.  Why  train  in  the 
debate  for  the  forum  if  one's  life-work  is  split- 
ting wood  for  the  kitchen  fire  f  So  Whoople  was 
wary.  We  know,  though,  that  the  mysterious 
girl  was  not  Rhoda  Bunting,  for  it  was  months 
later  that  she  came  to  our  valley. 

102 


THE  ADMIEABLE  WHOOPLE 

It  was  Snyder  County  that  gave  us  Rhoda. 
From  that  home  of  culture,  the  Airy  Grove 
Musical  Seminary,  she  came  to  us,  to  give  les- 
sons on  the  melodeon  and  the  Killowills'  piano. 
A  trim  little  thing  she  was !  I  see  her  now,  as 
she  used  to  start  out  each  morning,  with  her 
sailor  hat  tilted  dashingly  over  that  fine  head 
of  hair  of  burnished  copper,  shading  as  bright 
a  pair  of  eyes  as  ever  our  valley  has  seen,  shad- 
ing a  pair  of  dimpled  cheeks  whose  roses  even 
the  wind  and  sun  could  not  hide.  A  trim  figure 
was  hers,  encased  in  a  tight  black  jersey ;  and  a 
masterful  stride  she  had — a  step  full  of  spirit. 
Swinging  her  music-roll,  she  was  off  on  the 
weary  route  of  hers  that  led  from  valley's  end 
to  valley's  end,  sometimes  circling  the  ridges, 
sometimes  braving  the  mountains  where  the 
wooded  solitude  was  broken  by  some  soul's 
striving  after  art  as  it  is  in  a  melodeon.  And 
sunset  brought  her  home  again,  a  bit  jaded,  per- 
haps, but  trim  still,  and  cheery. 

Stacy  Whoople,  sitting  on  his  porch  one  even- 
ing, noticed  her  as  she  trudged  up  the  village 
street,  homeward  bound  to  the  Killowills' 
where  she  had  taken  board.  Of  course  he  would 

103 


SIX  STAES 

never  have  given  her  another  thought  had  she 
not  come  by  the  very  next  evening,  at  the  very 
same  minute,  when  the  weather-cock  on  the 
Larkers'  harn  was  ablaze  in  the  evening  sun. 
The  third  night  he  unconsciously  turned  his 
chair,  turned  his  back  on  the  square  and  all  its 
interests,  that  his  eyes  might  fetch  the  bend  in 
the  road.  And  when  she  went  by  he  called  a 
pleasant  "good-evening"  to  her.  He  expected 
the  girl  to  make  an  inaudible  reply  and  hide  her 
face  from  him  by  looking  away.  Instead  she 
smiled,  so  cheerily  that  he  half  started  from  his 
chair.  But  he  quickly  recovered  and  let  her 
pass.  It  was  not  long,  though,  till  he  went  into 
the  house  and  garbed  himself  in  his  Prince 
Albert. 

Poor  mice!  Poor  men!  Poor  Stacy  Whoo- 
ple !  When,  in  a  well-laid  plan,  you  have  spent 
a  half  hour  getting  your  tie  straight ;  when  you 
have  tallowed  your  boots  until  the  dust  speck 
seems  like  a  great  blotch ;  when  you  have  soaped 
your  hair  down  and  brushed  your  coat  till  it 
shines  like  a  dish-pan;  when  you  have  gently 
rapped  on  the  door  and  heard  a  soft  voice  bid 
you  enter — it  is  your  right  to  find  her  alone. 

104 


THE  ADMIRABLE  WHOOPLE 

But  if  there  must  be  another  there,  your  right 
is  to  demand  that  he  be  a  man — a  man  like 
yourself,  all  brushed  and  soaped  and  tallowed. 
To  find  her  with  the  one  boy  in  all  the  village 
you  abominate ;  to  find  him  gayly  rattling  music 
from  a  mouth-organ,  with  the  girl  so  busy  ac- 
companying him  on  the  Killo wills'  piano  that 
she  can  only  turn  her  head  and  smile  at  you — 
that  is  the  unkindest  cut.  So  it  befell  Stacy 
Whoople. 

Ehoda  Bunting  smiled  pleasantly.  Her 
greeting  was  warm  enough,  but  she  pounded 
the  keys  with  redoubled  vigor. 

Willie  Calker  paused  a  moment  to  catch  his 
breath  and  knock  the  harmonica  on  the  leg  of 
his  chair. 

' '  Ho,  Stace ! "  he  said.  Then  he  plunged  into 
the  music  again. 

The  Admirable  Whoople  sat  pigeon-foot 
a  while,  eying  the  tips  of  his  boots.  After  an 
interminable  time  he  eased  himself  by  a  swing 
to  crow-foot,  inspecting  his  heels.  From  crow- 
foot to  pigeon-foot,  from  pigeon-foot  back  he 
went,  till  at  last  the  music  caught  his  feet,  and 
the  rumble  of  the  floor  sounded  solemnly 

105 


SIX  STARS 

through  the  whine  of  the  mouth-organ  and  the 
clatter  of  the  piano.  Rhoda  heard  it.  With 
one  last  mad  dash  her  fingers  twiddled  along 
the  keys  in  the  fashion  most  approved  at  Airy 
Grove,  and  she  swung  around  on  the  stool  and 
faced  him. 

"My,  but  it  sounds  nice !"  he  said. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  the  girl  answered. 
"Willie  and  me  play  regular." 

The  boy  knocked  his  harmonica  ominously 
on  the  chair-leg  for  a  moment.  Then,  looking 
up,  he  crossed  glances  with  Stacy  Whoople  so 
sharply  that  the  fire  flew. 

"It  would  sound  better  without  the  mouth- 
organ,"  said  -Stacy  boldly.  "Harmonicas  is 
meant  for  babies  to  cut  their  teeth  on.  When  I 
come  again  I'll  bring  me  fiddle." 

"That  would  be  lovely!"  Rhoda  pronounced 
each  word  with  emphasis,  and  clasping  her 
hands,  leaned  toward  him,  so  that  in  the  lamp- 
light the  man  could  see  her  face,  eager  as  it  was 
with  honest  enthusiasm. 

The  harmonica  was  knocking  ominously  on 
the  chair-leg. 

"The  mouth-organ  would  spoil  it,"  declared 
106 


THE  ADMIEABLE  WHOOPLE 

Stacy.  "It's  first-rate  when  you  are  fetchin' 
the  cows  home,  but  for  an  evenin'  entertain- 
ment   He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He 

was  talking  to  Ehoda  Bunting,  avoiding  the 
boy's  quiet  eyes.  He  had  never  noticed  Willie 
before  except  to  kick  him  out  of  the  way,  and 
now  more  than  ever  there  was  need  to  ignore 
him.  "As  I  was  sayin',  for  an  evenin'  enter- 
tainment  " 

Willie  Calker  was  not  to  be  ignored. 

"It  would  be  nice  to  have  you  play  with  us, 
Stace,"  he  said,  "if  you  could  only  do  some- 
thin'  besides  jigs." 

"As  I  was  sayin',  for  an  evenin'  entertain- 
ment," repeated  Whoople  a  bit  louder;  "as  I 
was  sayin' " 

"Jigs  are  a  common  kind  of  music,"  Willie 
went  on.  "Now  if  you'd  take  a  few  les- 
sons  " 

"I  started  to  say  somethin'  about  an  evenin' 
entertainment,"  cried  the  Admirable,  striving 
vainly  not  to  be  ferocious,  for  that  would  have 
been  an  admission  of  the  boy's  existence. 

"You  might  be  able  to  join  us  in  playin' 
'There's  only  me  and  you  in  the  wide,  wide 

107 


SEX  STARS 

world/  "  said  Willie.  "S'posin'  we  play 
'There's  only  me  an'  you,'  Rhoda,  just  to  show 
him?" 

The  boy  straightened  up  in  his  chair,  clasped 
the  harmonica  to  his  mouth,  swelled  his  cheeks 
and  swung  away  into  the  stirring  strains.  For 
Rhoda  there  was  no  choice.  She  could  not  talk 
above  these  resounding  harmonies.  She  could 
not  stare  at  Mr.  Whoople,  and  it  looked  foolish 
to  sit  there  watching  her  folded  hands.  Her 
fingers  waved  over  the  keys  with  that  grace 
peculiar  to  the  pupils  of  Airy  Grove,  and  the 
Killowill  piano  sang  out  with  the  harmonica. 

It  was  better  thus,  after  all.  The  lamp  at  her 
side  brought  out  her  clear  profile  against  the 
gloom,  and  Stacy  Whoople,  watching  the  white 
hands  feathering  to  and  fro,  watching  her  lithe 
form  swaying  with  the  music,  saw  that  she  did 
not  look  at  the  keys  nor  at  her  flying  fingers, 
but  away  off,  at  the  ceiling,  and  he  said  to  him- 
self "It's  wonderful!" 

Poor  mice !  Poor  men !  Poor  Stacy  Whoo- 
ple! One  night  of  such  misery  aroused  his 
anger.  The  second  awakened  in  him  a  dogged 
determination  for  a  victory,  even  at  the  cost 

108 


THE  ADMIRABLE  WHOOPLE 

of  his  cherished  freedom.  The  third  broke  his 
spirit;  and  when  a  man's  spirit  is  broken  this 
way  he  is  in  love.  They  say  love  makes  us 
young  again.  It  made  a  boy  of  the  Admirable 
Whoople,  and  beside  this  sighing  swain  Willie 
Calker,  with  his  harmonica  and  his  great  red 
tie,  was  a  dashing  man  about  the  valley.  Stacy 
felt  the  change  too.  On  the  fifth  morning,  when 
he  wandered  into  the  Calkers'  garden,  Willie 
was  weeding  the  onion  bed,  kneeling  at  his  feet, 
a  mere  mite  that  he  could  crush  with  one  blow 
of  his  heavy  boots.  The  lad  smiled  at  him,  and 
called  him  ' '  Stace, ' '  not  with  effrontery,  but  by 
right ;  and  Whoople  bore  it,  for  he  knew  that  in 
reality  he  was  the  suppliant ;  that  in  that  dream- 
garden  where  he  would  be  wandering  he  was  on 
his  knees  while  the  masterly  boy  towered  over 
him. 

"You  mind  what  I  told  you  last  night,"  Stacy 
began. 

"You  mind  what  I  told  you,"  Willie  retorted, 
turning  over  and  propping  himself  up  with  his 
wide-spread  hands. 

"I  sayd  I'd  give  you  five  cents  a  night  to 
stay  away — that's  all  it's  worth,"  cried  the 

109 


SIX  STARS 

other.  "The  idee,  anyhow,  of  my  payin'  you 
to  keep  away!  You  otter  be  kicked  out." 

"You  dassent,"  returned  the  boy  calmly. 
"You  know  you  dassent,  too.  She  thinks  a 
heap  of  me  and  I  think  a  heap  of  her.  That's 
why  it's  worth  ten  cents  for  me  to  stay  away 
at  nights." 

Stacy  sat  down  on  a  tomato  frame,  and  for  a 
long  time  contemplated  the  twirling  end  of  a 
blade  of  timothy  he  held  in  his  hand.  "You 
know  it  ain't  right,  Willie,"  he  began  more 
softly.  "You  ottent  to  sell  yourself  that  way." 

"Folks  allus  gets  more  for  doin'  what's 
wrong,  don't  they?"  returned  the  boy. 

"But  s'posin'  I  told  her  on  you,"  said 
Whoople,  with  a  touch  of  defiance. 

"Yes,  s'posin',"  retorted  Willie.  "She'd 
like  to  know  that  you  was  payin'  me  ten  cents 
an  evenin'  so  you  could  set  up  with  her, 
wouldn't  she?  You'd  better  s'posin'  somethin' 
else."  The  boy  arose  and  stood  before  his 
rival.  "You  offered  me  a  nickel,  Stace 
Whoople, ' '  he  went  on.  ' '  You  otter  be  ashamed 
of  yourself.  It  ain't  right,  as  you  say,  so  I 
wants  a  dime,  for  it  ain't  often  I've  a  chance 

110 


THE  ADMIRABLE  WHOOPLE 

to  play  duets  with  anybody  as  was  edu- 
cated in  a  regular  cemetary.  Besides,  I 
think  a  heap  of  Ehoda  Bunting  and  she 
thinks  a  heap  of  me.  She  isn't  so  old 
and  I'm  not  so  young  but  what  she  might 
wait.  I'm  fourteen.  When  I'm  twenty  she'll 
be  thirty,  and  there  was  young  Elmer  Barefoot, 
he  was  only  twenty  when  he  married  that  rich 
Widow  Hockewout  from  Kishikoquillas.  Then 
Theodore  Spangle's  wife  is  fifteen  year  older 
than  him,  and  if  I 

"Hold  on,"  cried  Stacy,  reaching  out  desper- 
ately and  seizing  the  boy's  hand — for  Willie 
was  slowly  retreating  from  him.  "Hold  on! 
You  mind  what  you  sayd  last  night — you  sayd 
it  with  fingers  criss-crossed.  Well,  here's  a 
dollar — ten  evenin's,  mind  you " 

"I  don't  want "    Willie  was  struggling 

to  protest. 

He  was  too  late.  He  stood  there  alone,  con- 
templating a  great  silver  coin,  and  Whoople 
had  fled. 

"Stace — Stace!"  The  boy  ran  to  the  gate 
and  looked  up  the  road,  but  there  was  no  sign 
of  his  rival. 

Ill 


SIX  STARS 

A  bright  silver  dollar  is  a  very  fine  thing  to 
have  when  you  are  only  fourteen.  But  when 
you  are  fourteen  and  love  a  woman;  when  you 
have  a  bright  red  tie  and  a  harmonica ;  when  the 
woman  you  love  can  play  the  Killowills'  piano, 
it  is  dreadful  to  stand  alone  in  the  darkness, 
peering  through  the  window  into  the  cheerful 
room  where  she  sits,  and  to  know  that  you  have 
sold  your  right  to  be  with  her.  The  dollar 
burned  in  Willie's  hand  that  night.  Once  he 
thought  of  hurling  it  away,  into  the  mill-race. 
That  was  when  she  looked  up  from  her  playing 
and  smiled  at  Stacy  Whoople,  and  Stacy  smiled 
back  and  swept  the  bow  slowly  across  the 
strings  so  that  they  wailed  softly.  And  how 
she  played!  The  Killowills'  piano  had  caught 
the  fiddle's  mood.  Willie  knew  that.  In  the 
outer  darkness  he  could  not  hear  one  note,  but 
there  by  the  window  he  could  see  her  swaying 
to  and  fro;  he  could  see  the  white  hands  flash- 
ing ;  he  could  see  her  face  upturned  in  the  lamp- 
light halo  as  she  watched  the  ceiling  dreamily. 
At  her  side  Stacy  stood.  He,  too,  was  learning 
to  play  without  watching  the  strings.  His  eyes 
were  on  her  face,  and,  as  he  swung  the  bow,  he 

112 


THE  ADMIRABLE  WHOOPLE 

smiled.  Sometimes  she  would  look  to  him,  and 
Willie  could  see  their  glances  cross  and  the  fire 
fly.  Then  it  was  that  the  dollar  burned  in  his 
hand;  but  a  dollar  is  not  a  thing  to  be  lightly 
thrown  away.  To  save  it  he  hurried  to  his  old 
retreat  behind  the  mill,  where,  seated  on  the 
bank,  he  could  contemplate  the  black  waters  of 
the  dam. 

All  the  solace  of  tobacco,  all  the  soothing  of 
the  weed,  a  boy  has  in  a  grassy  bank,  a  stretch 
of  water  and  a  few  pebbles.  But  when  it  is 
dark  and  you  vent  your  anger  in  a  wild  swing 
of  the  arms — then  there  is  silence — then  that 
solemn  splash  out  there  in  the  blackness — that 
is  better.  Thus  you  hurl  the  devils  from  you. 
Thus  you  drown  them  out  there  in  the  inky 
sea.  Then  your  arm  gets  sore,  and  your  shoul- 
der cramps — and  peace  comes  to  you. 

So  it  was  with  Willie  Calker.  After  he  had 
sat  a  great  while  contemplating  the  wide 
reaches  of  that  sea  of  his — the  only  sea  he  had 
ever  known — he  inserted  two  fingers  in  his 
mouth  and  whistled  long  and  low.  He  did  not 
have  to  rub  a  lamp  or  an  ancient  brass  ring. 
His  was  a  simpler  mode  of  summoning  his  genii. 

113 


,   SIX  STABS 

Out  of  the  pale  glow  of  the  square,  Irving  Kil- 
lowill  came  slinking  to  him. 

Willie  pointed  to  the  water.  " Irving,"  he 
said,  "does  you  mind  the  last  time  I  soused 
you?" 

The  littler  boy  just  chattered. 

"Well,  I  'm  glad  you  recollect,"  said  the 
master  calmly. 

Irving  chattered  louder  and  beat  his  legs 
aimlessly  with  his  hands. 

"I'm  not  goin'  to  souse  you  now,"  Willie 
went  on  sternly,  "but  I  just  wanted  to  give  you 
warning. ' ' 

"Oh,  thanks!"  cried  young  Killowill;  "I 
tho't  mebbe " 

"Don't  think,"  commanded  Willie.  "I  don't 
want  you  to  think.  Can  you  play  the  jews- 
harp?" 

"I  can  play  the  'Devil's  Dream,'  :'  replied 
Irving,  with  a  ring  of  pride  in  his  voice. 

"That's  the  only  jews-harp  tune  they  is," 
returned  his  master.  "That  '11  do.  Can  you 
keep  up  with  the  pianner  and  the  fiddle  ? ' ' 

"It  depends  how  fast  they  go,"  Irving 
answered. 

114 


THE  ADMIRABLE  WHOOPLE 

"Do  you  mind  the  last  time  I  soused  you!" 
[Willie  pointed  again  to  the  black  water. 

"I  guess  I  can  keep  up,"  faltered  little  Kil- 
lowill. 

"And  do  you  want  to  earn  five  cents  an  even- 
in',  easy  work,  steady  job  for  nine  evenin'sf  " 

"Is  there  any  danger?"  asked  Irving.  To 
his  mind  such  a  prize  was  only  to  be  won  at 
some  great  risk,  by  daring  life  and  limb.  The 
thought  of  it  stirred  him.  His  fear  of  his 
master  was  gone  now,  in  the  prospect  of  the 
fortune,  and  he  laid  a  hand  on  the  other's  shoul- 
der and  shook  him.  "Honest  now,"  he  cried, 
"ain't  you  foolin'?" 

Willie  stood  up  and  for  a  moment  gazed 
across  the  flat  to  the  Killowill  house,  where  the 
light  was  winking  at  him  from  the  window. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  boy,  and,  seizing  him  by 
the  arm,  pointed  to  the  water. 

"Honest,"  he  said  solemnly.  "And  mind 
how  you  was  soused  the  last  time,  that  time  you 
forgot  to  put  the  m'lasses  in  Martin  Holmes 's 
boots." 

Irving  Killowill  minded  the  last  time  he  was 
soused.  He  did  the  will  of  his  master.  Whether 

115 


SIX  STARS 

it  was  more  from  fear  than  the  love  of  gain, 
I  do  not  know;  but  he  did  it  well,  and  on  the 
fourth  day  Stacy  Whoople  strolled  into  the 
Calkers'  garden.  He  seated  himself  on  a  to- 
mato frame,  and  for  a  long  time  silently 
watched  Willie  weeding  the  onion  bed. 

"How's  the  duets  comin'  along?"  asked  the 
boy,  turning  over  and  propping  himself  up  with 
his  wide-stretched  arms. 

Whoople  evaded  the  question.  "I  believe 
you  have  some  infloonce  with  Irving  Killowill," 
he  said. 

"Mebbe  you  might  call  it  infloonce,"  Willie 
answered.  "He's  smaller  than  me." 

"He's  smaller  than  me,  too,"  returned  Stacy, 
smiling  grimly,  "yet  I  haven't  any  infloonce. 
That's  why  I  come  to  you.  I'd  rather  have  you 
a  hundred  times,  with  your  old  mouth-organ, 
than  him,  a-joinin'  in  with  'The  Devil's  Dream' 
every  time  me  and  Rhoda  gets  started  on  a  duet. 
What  can  I  do  ?  It 's  his  pa 's  house,  and  Rhoda, 
she's  only  a  boarder."  Stacy's  voice  was  ris- 
ing in  wrath.  ' '  Sometimes  I  feel  like  I  could  kill 
him  if  only  he  was  my  size.  Last  night  I  was 
desperate.  I  went  clear  outen  my  head,  I  did, 

116 


THE  ADMIRABLE  WHOOPLE 

and  I  picked  him  up  and  dropped  him  out  the 
window.  It  wasn't  a  minute  till  he  was  back 
agin,  yang-yang-yangin'  away  at  'The  Devil's 
Dream.'  " 

"Didn't  Irving  say  nothin'?"  inquired 
Willie,  getting  interested. 

"He  sayd  some  thin'  about  not  bein'  so  bad 
as  a  sousin',"  replied  Stacy  gloomily.  "I'm 
desperate,  Willie — really,  so  I  come  to  you. 
Me  and  you  was  allus  friends,  now,  wasn't  we? 
You  have  infloonce.  Couldn't  you  keep  him 
away?  For  just  one  night,  Willie,  just  the  one 
night!" 

"It  might  cost  something''  the  boy  answered, 
after  some  meditation.  "Infloonce  is  expen- 
sive. Folks  allus  pays  for  it.  Now,  if  I  had 
the  money  I  might  get  Irving  to  walk  down  to 
East  Harmonsville  with  me  this  evenin'  to  buy 
a  plate  of  ice-crim. ' ' 

"I'll  give  you  a  dime,"  said  Stacy  eagerly. 

"But  how  about  me?"  the  boy  retorted. 
"Can't  I  have  a  plate!  Isn't  it  worth  some- 
thin'  to  walk  three  miles  and  back — with  Irving 
Killowill,  too?  About  fifty  cents  'ud  really  be 
right!" 

117 


SIX  STABS 

Stacy  protested.  Willie  was  firm.  Stacy 
considered,  eying  intently  the  blade  of  timothy 
that  he  twirled  in  his  fingers  all  the  while.  He 
hated  to  be  mulcted,  but  he  loved  the  girl.  He 
felt  toward  her  as  he  had  never  felt  toward  any 
other  woman  in  the  valley.  For  her  he  was 
ready  to  give  up  his  freedom ;  all  he  wanted  was 
the  opportunity.  To  pay  for  that  opportunity 
seemed  against  all  tradition,  but  he  was  in  the 
boy's  power.  And  where  in  all  the  world  is  the 
man  who,  when  he  loves  a  woman  and  seeks  to 
tell  her  that  he  loves  her,  will  let  the  paltry  mat- 
ter of  expenses  stand  between  him  and  the 
realization  of  his  hopes?  The  Admirable 
Whoople  was  not  that  man. 

Stacy  had  forgotten  the  loss  of  his  money  by 
evening,  when  at  last  he  faced  his  opportunity 
and  stood  with  one  hand  on  the  Killowills' 
gate-post,  watching  the  light  in  the  room.  She 
was  there.  Of  course  she  was  there,  and  Willie 
Calker  and  the  obstreperous  Irving  must  be 
well  on  the  road  to  East  Harmonsville.  The 
way  was  clear.  But  he  paused.  At  a  crisis  like 
this,  when  a  man  stands  face  to  face  with  his  op- 
portunity, it  is  best  not  to  rush  in  thoughtlessly. 

118 


THE  ADMIRABLE  WHOOPLE 

One  is  apt  to  be  incoherent  in  his  ardor.  Calm- 
ness is  what  is  needed.  So  Stacy  turned  a  moment 
from  the  light  and  walked  slowly  up  the  road  to 
the  school-house  and  back,  thinking  it  all  over — 
how,  when  they  had  played  " There's  only  me 
and  you  in  the  wide,  wide  world,"  he  was  to 
draw  her  gently  to  the  settee  and  tell  her.  He 
reached  out  into  the  night  and  gathered  in  an 
armful  of  darkness,  when  he  came  to  that  point. 
"There's  only  me  and  you,  Ehoda,"  he  was  to 
say,  "and  the  Willie  Calkers  and  the  Irving 
Killowills  is  just  the  same  now  as  though  they 
never  was  at  all."  Then  she  would  say  noth- 
ing. Such  are  times  when  women  shouldn't 
talk.  Stacy  had  reached  that  conclusion  when 
he  drew  up  at  the  gate  again. 

The  light  was  out.  The  house  was  dark. 
This  was  no  time  to  delay.  His  knock  on  the 
door  was  firm  and  masterful,  but  it  brought  no 
answer.  He  pounded.  Above  him  a  window 
was  opened,  and,  looking  up,  he  saw,  in  the  light 
of  the  rising  moon,  the  venerable  head  of  Elmer 
Killowill. 

"Who's  that  a-knockin'  down  below  there?" 
shouted  the  old  man. 

119 


SIX  STARS 

" It *s me, "Stacy  answered.  "I've  come  to  set 
up  with  Khoda  Bunting." 

There  was  a  gentle  cackle  above.  Whoople's 
heart  fell.  Then  little  Irving  Killo  will's 
head  showed  at  the  window  beside  that  of  his 
father. 

"Ain't  you  heard?"  called  the  old  man. 
"Didn't  Willie  tell  you?" 

"Tell  me  what?"    Stacy's  voice  faltered. 

Old  Killowill  did  not  hear  him;  but  it  made 
no  difference,  for  he  shouted,  "Her  young  man 
come  from  Snyder  County  to-day  an'  she's 
gone  home  to  be  married." 

So  Rhoda  Bunting  left  us.  So  the  Killowill 
piano  is  silent,  and  Stacy  Whoople  sits  moodily 
on  his  porch,  watching  the  turn  of  the  road 
where  he  first  saw  her.  He  is  free  still,  and 
there  is  much  about  him  in  the  stenographic 
reports  of  the  Sisters  of  the  Heathen.  We  find 
mention  of  him  in  Miss  Hannaberry's  account 
of  the  last  meeting,  but  of  more  vital  interest 
is  her  quotation  of  Mrs.  Calker. 

"Speakin'  of  my  Willie,"  says  the  widow, 
"have  you  seen  his  lovely  mouth-organ  with  a 
bell  on  the  end?  He  just  got  it  from  the  city, 

120 


THE  ADMIRABLE  WHOOPLE 

an'  lie  plays  it  all  the  time;  but  he  ain't  the 
same  as  he  used  to  be.  He's  snappy  like,  an' 
don't  eat,  an'  kind  o'  moons  around.  If  he 
was  older  I'd  think  he  was  in  love,  but  bein' 
as  he  is  so  young,  I  guess  it's  in-di-gestion." 


121 


THE  SECOND  VENTURE. 

IT'S  been  gittin'  lonesomer  and  lonesomer 
up  here  on  the  hill,  Colonel,"  said  Harvey 
Homer  to  his  hound.  He  was  standing  be- 
fore a  bit  of  cracked  mirror  trying  to  twist 
his  collar  on,  and  in  spite  of  the  plaint  in  his 
words,  his  tone  was  lithesome,  and  he  smiled  as 
he  looked  down  at  his  companion.  Colonel,  of 
course,  said  nothing  in  reply,  only  beat  his  tail 
upon  the  floor. 

"How  do  you  figger  she'll  like  me  now!" 
Harvey  laughed.  "I  allow  I'm  pretty  well 
slicked  up.  My  bow's  tasty,  ain't  it?"  He  laid 
his  great  hand  across  his  tie  to  make  sure  that 
it  was  straight.  "Kitty  Holmes  is  wery  par- 
ticular, Colonel,  and  big-feelin'.  The  Holmeses 
is  the  best  family  in  the  walley;  but,  after  all, 
it  ain't  blood  that  counts  nowadays.  If  it  was 
blood  she  was  lookin'  for,  she  might  take 
Preacher  Spink's  boy;  but  even  if  the  Homers 
ain't  as  ayristocratic  as  the  Spinks,  I've  sixty, 

122 


THE  SECOND  VENTURE 

acres  and  a  tight  house,  though  it  is  a  mile 
from  town." 

The  hound  again  beat  the  floor  with  his  tail 
to  show  that  he  agreed  thoroughly. 

"Mind  me,  now,"  the  man  went  on,  squeez- 
ing himself  into  his  Prince  Albert.  "It  had 
ought  to  be  let  out,  Colonel.  I  really  think  I 
ought  to  marry  agin  just  to  git  this  coat  let  out. 
.Why,  it  won't  button  no  more,  even;  but  I  can 
th'ow  it  back  careless  like,  as  if  that  was  the 
way  it  was  wore.  How's  that,  Colonel?" 

The  hound  seemed  to  think  that  no  one  would 
notice  the  tightness  of  the  garment,  for  he 
showed  his  teeth  and  smiled. 

"Now  we're  off,"  the  master  said,  pulling 
his  cap  over  his  ears.  "It's  pretty  sharp  out, 
old  boy,  but  I  don't  want  to  spoil  the  effect  with 
that  torn  overcoat  of  mine.  Weemen  is  queer, 
Colonel;  weemen  is  queer.  They  allus  pre-fers 
a  cold  dude  to  a  man  that's  ragged  and  warm." 

So  Harvey  Homer  went  out  into  the  bitter 
winter  afternoon,  and,  with  his  dog  at  his  heels, 
walked  blithely  toward  the  village.  He  was  not 
an  egotist.  He  had  not  even  made  his  conquest 
as  yet,  nor  was  he  altogether  sure  of  success. 

123 


SIX  STARS 

His  happiness  was  of  another  source.  His 
whistling  had  a  deeper  note.  He  was  stepping 
out  of  five  lonely  years  into  a  bright  life 
again.  The  door  had  closed  upon  the  past,  shut- 
ting from  him  the  memories  of  days  over  which 
he  had  long  been  brooding,  and  the  future  was 
holding  out  to  him  many  promises.  The  future 
in  concrete  lay  before  him.  It  was  there  in  the 
village  at  the  foot  of  the  slope ;  it  was  there  in 
the  yellow  house  by  the  church  where  Kitty 
Holmes  was  waiting.  That  Kitty  was  waiting 
he  had  no  doubt.  He  had  not  specifically  in- 
formed her  that  he  was  coming,  but  he  had 
called  on  her  yesterday  and  the  day  before,  and 
still  the  day  before  that.  Indeed,  her  uncle 
Martin  had  twitted  him  about  it  at  the  store,  and 
if  the  ancients  there  expected  another  visit, 
surely  she  could  not  be  blind. 

At  the  crest  of  the  hill  Harvey  turned  for  a 
glance  at  his  own  distant  home,  its  fresh  coat 
of  paint  glistening  in  the  afternoon  sun.  From 
down  there  in  the  village  she  could  not  see  it, 
but  he  seemed  to  feel  her  in  the  spirit  at  his 
side  admiring  it.  For  one  it  was  a  lonely  place. 
For  two  it  would  be  a  snug  spot.  Perhaps  she 

124 


THE  SECOND  VENTURE 

would  think  it  a  bit  small,  the  Holmeses  had 
always  had  so  much,  and  she  might  find  three 
rooms  a  trifle  cramped,  but  he  was  planning  an 
addition  toward  the  barn,  and  perhaps  a  sum- 
mer kitchen  by  the  milk-house. 

"It  will  be  fine  with  that  extension,  now  won't 
it,  Colonel?"  he  said.  "We'll  have  to  make  it 
two  stories,  with  a  room  overhead  for  the  hired 
girl — she'll  have  to  have  a  hired  girl;  the 
Holmeses  allus  had  a  hired  girl." 

The  hound  agreed  thoroughly,  licking  the 
hand  held  out  to  him  and  wagging  his  tail 
vociferously. 

The  world  was  going  well  with  Harvey 
Homer.  He  went  swinging  on,  whistling  more 
gayly  than  ever,  his  coat  flaring  open  wide, 
his  broad  chest  defying  the  bitter  wind.  The 
very  thought  of  a  hired  girl  seemed  to  have 
added  to  his  stature.  A  few  years  ago  it  would 
have  been  a  dream.  To-morrow  it  might  be  a 
reality.  A  few  years  ago — that  was  before  the 
long,  dark  time ;  that  was  when  Martha  was  liv- 
ing; that  was  before  the  lonesome  time.  He 
stopped  whistling.  He  shortened  his  steps. 
He  buttoned  his  coat  against  the  wind. 

125 


SIX  STAES 

In  those  other  happy  days  of  his,  their  ideas 
had  been  strangely  simple.  They  had  found 
three  rooms  ample  for  their  way  of  living. 
True,  they  had  planned  some  time  to  have  a 
summer  kitchen,  but  that  was  away  off  in  the 
future,  when  they  should  be  rich,  and  of  riches 
the  stony  farm  held  little  promise.  Of  a  hired 
girl  they  had  never  dared  to  dream.  The  bliss- 
ful state  of  Nirvana  were  as  easy  to  attain. 
Strange  it  was,  too,  how  contented  they  had 
been,  though  so  narrow.  Then  the  angels  had 
come  and  taken  her.  Strange  it  was  that  they 
should  pass  the  village  by  and  visit  the  lone- 
somest  house  in  all  the  valley,  and  take,  of  all 
its  people,  the  one  who  would  be  most  missed. 
So  she  had  left  him  to  work  in  solitude  and 
desperation.  Work  was  all  of  life  that  re- 
mained, it  seemed,  and  it  had  added  a  fat 
meadow  to  his  acres  and  turned  the  timber  in 
his  woods  to  bank  deposits.  What  had  been 
her  dreams  he  had  won,  but  for  another.  To 
that  other  he  was  going  now  to  lay  the  prizes 
at  her  feet.  He  had  never  gone  for  Martha. 
He  had  never  put  on  fine  raiment  for  her.  They 
had  known  each  other  too  well  for  that.  Born 

126 


THE  SECOND  VENTURE 

on  neighboring  clearings,  they  had  grown  up 
together,  and  he  could  not  remember  the  time 
when  she  had  not  been  a  part  of  his  life.  A 
day  came,  of  course,  as  naturally  as  comes  a 
birthday  or  a  Christmas,  when  they  went  to- 
gether before  a  preacher,  and  she  moved  to  his 
home. 

Harvey  was  standing  still  in  the  road.  For 
that  moment  there  only  was  one  woman.  He 
turned  and  slowly  retraced  his  steps  till  the 
house  was  in  view  again,  bringing  with  it  a 
clearer  memory — not  of  the  days  when  she  was 
there,  but  of  the  days  just  gone,  through  which 
he  had  been  plodding,  with  only  Colonel  at  his 
side,  of  the  long  evenings  when  he  had  spelled 
his  lonely  way  through  the  mysteries  of  the 
Good  Book.  This  was  the  lonesome  time.  To 
this  he  was  returning.  This  was  the  past  to 
which  he  would  close  the  way,  the  memory  from 
which  he  was  fleeing.  So  he  wheeled  again,  and 
with  face  set  and  quickened  steps  went  down 
the  hill. 

In  all  his  life  Harvey  Homer  had  not  re- 
ceived a  dozen  letters,  and  the  county  paper 
only  came  once  a  week.  But  every  day,  the 

127 


SIX  STARS 

year  round,  however  wild  the  weather,  he  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  glass-fronted  case  at  the 
end  of  the  store  counter  and  inquired  for  his 
"news."  It  had  become  a  habit  with  him.  It 
was  a  solemn  service.  Thus  he  asserted  his  in- 
tellectuality. In  his  bold  inquiry  he  was  par- 
taking of  the  blessing  of  a  free  government 
which  gives  to  every  citizen,  great  and  small, 
the  right  to  ask  for  mail.  This  custom  of  his 
now  wrought  for  him  much  evil,  for  by  the  time 
he  reached  Six  Stars  he  was  intent  upon  his 
purpose;  he  was  remembering  only  the  lone- 
some years,  and  was  reaching  out  for  life 
again.  Then  that  time-embedded  habit  turned 
him  from  the  way  for  just  one  moment,  though 
he  could  have  named  no  one  in  all  the  world 
who  would  likely  write  to  him. 

There  was  a  letter  for  him,  and  it  came 
not  as  from  one  on  earth.  His  solemn 
inquiry  brought  through  the  little  window 
a  printed  envelope,  addressed  to  Mrs.  Har- 
vey Homer,  and  when  he  saw  it  he  sank 
down  on  the  bench  and  sat  there  staring 
at  it  vacantly.  The  past  had  returned.  He 
could  not  shut  it  out.  It  had  been  awakened 

128 


THE  SECOND  VENTURE 

by  this  letter  of  a  quack,  a  belated  answer  to 
his  dying  wife's  widespread  and  vain  appeal 
for  healing.  There  had  been  a  time  when  he 
had  cherished  these  strange  missives.  Then 
they  had  come  more  often,  and  he  had  fancied 
that  in  them  he  saw  her  hand.  They  gave 
him  a  sense  of  her  nearness,  and  the  transi- 
tion was  slight  from  seeing  in  these  let- 
ters from  a  land  as  far  off  and  mysterious  as 
heaven  itself,  not  messages  for  her,  but 
from  her  to  him,  mute  reminders  that  she 
had  lived  and  would  not  be  forgotten.  He 
did  not  even  open  it.  The  envelope  alone 
apprised  him  of  its  real  contents,  so  he  just  sat 
fumbling  it. 

"I  thought  they'd  quit  comin'  a  year  ago," 
he  said  to  himself.  *  *  It  do  seem  like  she 's  wrote 
agin.  I  s'pose  it's  really  jest  an  accident,  but 
it's  curious  how  it  come  to-day.  It  do  seem 
like  a  warnin'.  It  do  seem  like  them  doctors 
was  instruments  in  her  hands  to  keep  me  from 
forgettin'  what  I  hadn't  otter." 

"I  s'pose,  Harvey,"  said  Martin  Holmes, 
speaking  in  his  most  insinuating  tones  from  his 
seat  by  the  stove — "I  s'pose  you're  on  your 

129 


SIX  STARS 

way  to  set  up  with  Kitty.  She  was  tellin'  me 
how  as  she  was  expectin'  you." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  it,"  was  the  other's  an- 
swer. "Mebbe  I  will  and  mebbe  I  won't.  That 
wasn't  what  I  come  for,  anyway." 

He  sauntered  out  with  all  the  nonchalance 
he  could  assume,  turning  homeward  with  head 
bowed  and  lagging  steps.  At  the  bridge  he 
paused,  to  rest  there  on  the  railing  and  watch 
the  water  playing  through  the  rifts  in  the  ice. 
For  that  moment  his  mind  was  fully  made  up 
that  he  must  go  back  into  the  old  home  and  the 
old  time  to  end  a  life  with  only  dogs  and  mem- 
ories for  company.  The  letter  fixed  that.  He 
held  it  in  his  hand,  still  unopened,  for  he 
knew  its  contents.  He  had  read  enough  of  its 
kind  to  know  that  it  guaranteed  a  cure  with  one 
dozen  bottles,  and  offered  a  trial  bottle  free  on 
receipt  of  fifty  cents  in  postage-stamps.  That 
was  the  apparent  message,  but  not  the  one  con- 
veyed to  him.  All  it  meant  to  him  was  that  she 
would  not  be  forgotten. 

The  gray  of  the  winter  afternoon  was  creep- 
ing over  the  valley.  Snow  clouds  had  overcast 
the  sky,  and  his  hill  was  in  their  shadow.  Bleak 

130 


THE  SECOND  VENTURE 

it  looked  up  there  on  the  ridges,  but  he  must  go 
back  to  it.  He  started.  Then  he  paused  for  a 
last  look  up  the  village  street  to  the  yellow 
house.  He  fancied  he  saw  a  girl's  face  at  the 
window.  It  was  pure  fancy,  perhaps,  but  he 
turned  about  and  watched  intently.  Suddenly 
he  hurled  the  letter  from  him.  The  brisk  wind 
caught  it  and  swept  it  over  the  bridge;  the 
water  caught  it  and  whisked  it  away.  There 
was  no  going  back  now.  She  must  have  seen 
him  do  it.  She  must  understand.  To  her  the 
message  was  returning,  by  the  stream  to  the 
river,  by  the  river  to  the  sea  and  the  unknown. 
She  must  forgive  him. 

So  Harvey  Homer  hurried  into  life  again. 

"Why,  this  is  a  surprise!"  said  Kitty 
Holmes,  though  she  had  been  sitting  through 
the  long  afternoon  waiting  for  him. 

Harvey  had  thought  to  take  her  by  storm, 
but  in  her  presence  all  his  courage  fled  from 
him,  as  it  so  often  does  with  men  in  like  case. 
A  moment  since  a  bold,  determined  fellow,  now 
he  was  shyly  sidling  to  a  chair. 

"It  looks  for  snow,"  he  said,  after  a  moment 
of  embarassed  silence. 

131 


SIX  STARS 

"It  does,"  said  she,  "and  it  beats  all  how  it 
will  keep  cloudin'  over  every  day,  and  blowin' 
up,  and,  after  all,  nothin'  happens." 

For  a  very  long  time  they  discussed  that  most 
interesting  of  all  topics — the  weather.  They 
reviewed  the  conditions  of  the  week  past,  and 
compared  them  with  the  conditions  of  the  same 
week  in  the  preceding  year.  They  touched  the 
effect  on  crops  and  live-stock  in  the  valley. 
They  prophesied  for  the  months  to  come,  ex- 
pressing their  hopes  and  fears  with  as  much 
gravity  as  if  it  made  some  difference  to  them 
whether  it  blew  hot  or  cold.  It  was  engrossing. 
Of  course  Harvey  knew  that  all  this  talk  meant 
nothing,  but  it  kept  him  with  her,  and  she  looked 
so  plump  and  rosy,  so  full  of  life  and  jollity, 
that  he  wanted  to  stretch  out  his  arms  and 
gather  her  in,  but  he  dared  not.  He  had  still 
to  scale  the  great  wall  of  convention  that  di- 
vides man  from  woman,  and  he  feared  to  make 
the  leap  lest  he  fall.  He  planned  to  go  up 
gently  and  surely. 

"I'm  figgerin'  on  an  extension  to  my  house," 
he  began,  with  a  slight  tremble  in  his  voice, 
after  the  long  pause  that  marked  the  exhaustion 

132 


THE  SECOND  VENTURE 

of  the  weather.    "Now,  where  do  you  think  it 
ought  to  be?" 

"Is  it  for  a  settin'-room?"  Kitty  asked. 

"A  parlor,"  said  he  nonchalantly.  He  al- 
most feared  to  overwhelm  her.  "I  thought  I'd 
ought  to  have  a  parlor,  and  I  allow  I'll  buy  me 
a  full  set  of  furniture. ' ' 

"In-deed!"  cried  Kitty,  surprised  but  still 
not  overwhelmed.  "A  parlor — then  you  must 
put  it  toward  the  road,  so  folks  can  see  it. ' ' 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  said  Harvey;  "I 
was  goin'  to  run  it  toward  the  barn,  thinkin' 
I'd  put  on  a  second  story  for  the  hired  girl,  and 
she  could  hear  at  nights  if  there  was  trouble  in 
the  stable." 

"A  hired  girl?"  cried  Kitty.  "In-deed! 
Why,  Harvey,  you  must  be  thinkin'  of  gettin' 
married!" 

Now,  had  Harvey  admitted  his  intentions 
then  and  there,  he  might  have  seen  the  end  of 
all  his  troubles;  but,  as  men  so  often  do  when 
women  would  lead  them  gently,  he  lost  his 
courage  for  the  moment ;  his  tongue  balked, 
though  his  heart  and  head  would  have  followed 
her.  < 

133 


SIX  STARS 

1  'Oh,  no,'*  he  stammered.  But  he  began  to 
shift  about  in  his  chair  so  uneasily  that  Kitty 
knew  better,  and  she  had  no  mind  to  let  him 
back  away. 

"You  needn't  tell  me  you  ain't  takin'  notice 
somewhere,"  she  said  softly.  "You  ain't 
thinkin'  of  buildin'  a  parlor  and  gettin'  a  full 
set  of  furniture  for  a  hired  girl,  Harvey?" 

Now  he  was  wondering  if  she  could  be  blind. 
Had  all  his  visits  been  so  unavailing?  Did  she 
believe  some  other  woman  was  in  his  mind? 
The  thought  for  the  moment  stunned  him,  and 
he  stared  mutely  at  her. 

She  was  looking  at  the  floor.  That  was 
better. 

"You're  gettin'  lonesome,  ain't  you,  Har- 
vey?" she  said  gently. 

Now  heart  and  head  and  tongue  went  wild 
together.  Now  he  understood  her  and  she  un- 
derstood him.  Courage  came. 

"Yes,  Kitty,"  he  said.  "I'm  lonesome.  It's 
nice  up  there  on  the  hill  for  two,  but  for  just  the 
one  it's  awful.  A  dog's  company,  but  it  ain't 
human.  The  Good  Book's  consolin',  but  read- 
in'  is  wearin'.  It's  when  dark  has  come  you 

134 


THE  SECOND  VENTURE 

feel  it  most;  when  the  wind's  a-whistlin'  and 
even  Colonel's  gone  to  sleep,  so  there's  nothin' 
to  do  but  set  and  think.  And  I've  thought 
'most  everything  there  is,  and  it  gits  tiresome 
thinkin'  it  all  over  agin — over  and  over.  But, 
now,  Kitty 

The  door  opened.  The  cold  blast  checked 
him,  and  he  turned.  Irving  Killowill  stood  be- 
fore him,  holding  out  a  letter. 

"It's  for  you,  Harvey,"  panted  the  boy.  "It 
come  floatin'  down  the  creek  as  I  was  huntin' 
mus'rats,  and  I  thought  I  had  better  fetch  it 
to  you. ' ' 

It  was  her  letter.  He  could  not  escape  it. 
She  would  not  let  him  forget  her. 

' '  You  done  right,  Irving, ' '  the  man  said,  tak- 
ing the  envelope  and  putting  it  in  his  pocket, 
dripping  though  it  was.  "You  done  right. 
Next  time  I  see  you  I'll  give  you  a  penny.  Don't 
forget  to  remind  me. ' ' 

"I  won't,"  the  boy  cried,  closing  the  door 
behind  him  with  a  bang,  and  speeding  away  to 
his  hunting. 

"He  done  right,  Kitty,"  Harvey  said. 

He  seemed  to  think  she  understood  him.  He 
135 


SIX  STAKS 

Had  scaled  the  wall.  She  was  standing  there 
before  him,  just  waiting,  but  the  man  was  look- 
ing over  and  beyond  her. 

"As  I  was  sayin',  it's  mighty  lonesome  up 
on  the  hill,"  he  went  on.  " Sometimes  I  think 
I'd  like  to  catch  somethin' — somethin'  that's 
real  fatal. — But  I've  stayed  longer  than  I  laid 
out  to,  for  I  must  git  home  and  do  the  feedin'. 
Good-afternoon. ' ' 

"You  needn't  be  so  lonesome,"  the  girl  cried, 
looking  up. 

The  door  was  half  closed  on  him,  and  he  pre- 
tended not  to  hear.  A  moment  later  he  was 
hurrying  by  the  store,  and  Martin  Holmes,  at 
the  window,  saw  him. 

" Somethin 's  the  matter  with  Harvey,  boys," 
the  old  man  said.  "He's  lookin'  mighty  peekit- 
like.  I  think  he  wants  to  marry  Kitty,  and  all 
he  has  to  do  is  to  ast.  Yet  he  don't.  I  allow 
she'd  take  him  quick.  The  Holmeses  is  the  best 
family  in  the  walley,  and  it  'd  be  a  comedown 
for  one  of  'em  to  marry  a  Homer,  who,  even 
when  they  was  in  Turkey  Walley,  wasn't  first- 
class.  But  weemen  can't  be  choosers.  Some- 
thin  's  holdin'  him  back.  It  must  be  them  pay  tent 

136 


THE  SECOND  VENTURE 

medicine  circulars  agin.  They'll  drive  Tn'm  to 
the  grave,  boys,  and  had  ought  to  be  stopped. 
The  government  shouldn't  allow  it,  I  says,  and 
I  don't  think  the  government  would  if  it 
knowd. ' ' 

The  government  never  knew.  Law-bound, 
it  would  have  been  heartless,  anyway,  and  con- 
tinue performing  its  mail-carrying  functions, 
despite  the  unhappiness  it  might  cause.  So  the 
store  thought,  for  it  pondered  much  over  Har- 
vey Homer 's  case  that  winter,  his  very  absence 
keeping  him  in  mind.  Once  a  week  he  came  to 
get  his  county  paper,  but  he  always  hurried 
away.  Occasionally  his  rifle  could  be  heard 
barking  along  the  ridges,  and  sometimes  Colo- 
nel would  run  a  rabbit  through  the  village 
yards.  Harvey  was  back  in  his  old  life,  brood- 
ing again,  and  thinking  the  old  thoughts  over 
and  over. 

"It's  curious  how  quiet  she  has  kep'  lately, 
Colonel,"  he  said  one  evening,  looking  up  from 
the  Good  Book.  It  was  one  of  those  silent  even- 
ings when  there  was  no  wind  even  to  keep  him 
company,  for  the  snow  was  falling  heavily. 
"It's  three  months  now  since  we've  got  any 

137 


SIX  STARS 

mail  at  all.  She  seems  to  be  forgettin'.  That 
must  be  a  pretty  place,  jedgin'  from  what  the 
Good  Book  says  there  in  Revelations,  but  it's 
kind  o'  full  of  animals,  and  she  was  never 
much  on  animals.  But  I  s'pose  she's  gittin' 
used  to  it,  and  ain't  mindin'  about  me  so  much. 
There  must  be  lots  of  her  folks  there,  Colonel, 
and  mebbe  she  sees  how  lonesome  we  are,  and 
thinks  we  might  go  on  with  the  extension  and 
all  them  plans.  It  seems  to  me  if  she  didn't 
like  it  she  had  ought  to  wrote." 

It  was  curious.  Days  went  by ;  weeks  passed ; 
no  letters  came,  and  Harvey  began  to  brighten. 
He  resumed  his  daily  trips  to  the  village,  ar- 
riving there  on  the  minute  with  the  stage,  and 
anxiously  watching  the  distribution  of  the  mail. 
The  county  paper  was  the  only  answer  to  his 
formal  inquiry. 

"She  must  be  forgettin*  me,"  he  would  say 
to  himself,  and  he  would  smile  softly. 

Then,  on  a  warm  day  in  early  spring,  when 
the  store  doors  were  open  wide  for  the  first 
time  in  the  year,  and  the  worthies  were  on  the 
bench  again,  basking  in  the  sunshine,  they  saw 
him  go  by  whistling.  The  old  Prince  Albert, 

138 


THE  SECOND  VENTUEE 

flaring  open,  was  adorned  with  a  geranium  on 
the  lapel,  matching  in  brilliancy  his  new  tie. 
He  stopped  as  by  a  sudden  thought  and  called 
back  to  them: 

"Is  the  stage  in  yit?" 

"Yes,"  said  Martin  Holmes,  looking  at  the 
ceiling.  "But  there's  no  news  fer  you.  I 
minded  that  petickler." 

Harvey  hurried  on,  whistling  louder. 

"I  was  speakin'  last  fall  about  my  bein'  so 
lonesome  up  there  on  the  hill,  Kitty, ' '  he  began, 
as  if  there  never  had  been  any  weather. 

She  had  stepped  behind  him  and  quietly  shot 
the  bolt,  and  then  stood  very,  very  near  him. 

"Well,  I've  got  the  lumber  for  the  exten- 
sion," he  went  on,  "and  as  you  suggested  it, 
I'm  kind  o'  thinkin'  of  gittin'  married.  Now, 
who  does  you  guess  I'm " 

There  was  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door. 

"Go  on,  Harvey,"  Kitty  said.  But  he  had 
dropped  feebly  into  a  chair. 

"It  mowt  be  Irving  Killowill,"  he  cried. 

"You  was  sayin'  you  was  so  lonely,"  said  the 
girl,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

The  knock  was  more  insistent. 
139 


SIX  STABS 

"It  mowt  be  Irving,"  Harvey  whispered. 

"He  can't  get  in,"  returned  Kitty  quietly. 
"And  I  think  I  can  guess." 

Harvey  arose  slowly  and  looked  at  the  door. 
His  eyes  caught  the  bolt,  and  he  turned  to  her. 
She  was  standing  very,  very  near  him. 

Where  do  women  learn  this  way?  Who  has 
taught  them  to  tell  so  much,  though  saying 
nothing?  There  is  much  we  see  in  woman's 
eyes,  but  it  is  when  they  are  turned  from  us 
that  they  speak  most.  Harvey  Homer  had  no 
past  then.  All  the  lonesome  time  was  over.  He 
was  living,  really  living,  in  the  present. 

"Some  one's  rappin'  on  the  window,"  she 
cried,  suddenly  springing  from  him. 

"I  don't  care  if  it  is  Irving,"  said  he  grimly. 
But  pressed  against  the  pane  he  saw  a  bearded 
face. 

"How  could  you  'a'  peeped?"  demanded 
Kitty,  standing  by  the  open  door,  furiously 
blushing. 

"How  was  we  to  know?"  said  Martin  Holmes. 
"We  didn't  mean  no  harm,  did  we,  boys?" 

The  worthies  shook  their  heads.  "Solomon 
sais  'a  wise  woman  pulleth  down  the  curtain,'  ' 

140 


THE  SECOND  VENTURE 

said  old  man  Killowill.  "He  otter  knowd,  fer 
he  had  a  thousand  wives.  Now,  he  must  'a' 
had  lots  o'  practice  poppin'  the  question.  He 
must  'a' " 

"See  here,  Killowill,  we're  not  here  to  listen 
to  no  sermon,"  cried  Martin  Holmes.  "We 
come  to  deliver  this  mail  as  has  been  accumu- 
latin'  at  the  store  all  winter  fer  Mrs.  Harvey 
Homer. ' ' 

Harvey  had  sat  down  very  abruptly,  and  was 
staring  at  the  company,  one  hand  outstretched 
to  receive  the  packet.  But  Kitty  was  too  quick 
for  him. 

"You're  deliverin'  it  a  day  early,"  she  said, 
smiling.  "But  I  won't  open  'em  till  to- 
morrow. ' ' 

"Burn  'em,"  said  Harvey.  "You  ain't  ail- 
in',  Kitty,  and  from  what  I  know  of  doctors 
you'll  git  lots  more  of  'em — lots." 


141 


THE  POSY  SONG 

SHOULD  the  lily  sing  soprano?"  That  was 
the  question  that  split  the  choir,  and  when 
the  Six  Stars  choir  split  the  breach  was 
between  the  houses  of  Bawkis  and  Holmes. 
So,  in  this  instance,  the  house  of  Bawkis  stood 
firmly  for  soprano,  while  the  house  of  Holmes 
contended  as  hotly  for  contralto.  And  even 
Miss  Myrtle  Shooter,  the  peace-loving  little 
woman  who  presided  at  the  melodeon,  could  not 
smooth  the  trouble  over.  Peace-loving,  she 
swayed  through  three  meetings,  from  con- 
tralto to  soprano,  from  soprano  to  contralto, 
and  at  last  in  despair  declared  that  she  could 
not  see  that  it  made  any  difference,  anyway,  as 
lilies  never  sang,  anyhow. 

' 'But,"  said  Thomas  Bawkis,  speaking  for 
that  house,  "I  have  heard  no  less  than  six  posy 
songs.  We  had  a  beautiful  one  at  the  normal 
school  last  year,  and  I  managed  it  entirely.  I 
arranged  the  parts  and  trained  the  singers.  I 

142 


THE  POSY  SONG 

even  hung  the  sheets,  cut  the  holes  in  them  for 
the  heads  and  painted  them  up  to  look  like  flow- 
ers. I  was  the  sunflower  myself,  singing  tenor, 
and  the  lily  sang  soprano.  All  the  lilies  I  have 
ever  seen  sang  soprano. ' ' 

To  this  the  three  other  Messrs.  Bawkis  said 
"Amen,"  while  Anna,  their  only  sister,  fum- 
bled with  her  music-roll.  She  sang  soprano. 

Anywhere  else  than  in  Six  Stars  this  should 
have  settled  the  dispute,  but  Miss  Susan  Holmes 
had  taken  a  course  at  the  Airy  Grove  Seminary 
and  knew  just  as  much  about  music  as  any  of 
the  Bawkises. 

"I  sang  the  lily  at  Airy  Grove  myself,"  she 
said  firmly,  "and  I'm  a  contralto.  Our  so- 
prano was  the  tulip." 

To  that  the  three  other  Misses  Holmes  said 
"Amen,"  for  they  all  were  contraltos,  though 
Miss  Lucy  prided  herself  on  being  also  a  mezzo- 
soprano.  Edgar  Holmes,  sitting  guarded  by 
two  sisters  at  either  side,  bowed  his  head  in 
grave  acquiescence.  He  sang  bass,  the  only 
bass  in  the  choir,  so  the  matter  was  to  him 
simply  one  of  family  honor. 

The  four  Messrs.  Bawkis  were  firm.  The 
143 


SIX  STARS 

four  Misses  Holmes  were  firm.  Miss  Shooter 
wavered,  and  for  a  time  it  seemed  that  the 
.church  concert  must  be  marred  by  the  omission 
of  its  most  novel  and  entertaining  feature. 
When  three  fruitless  meetings  had  been  held, 
and  the  existence  of  the  deadlock  firmly  estab- 
lished, it  received  recognition  at  the  store,  and 
the  merits  of  the  contending  parties  were  dis- 
cussed with  much  heat.  Martin  Holmes  natu- 
rally took  up  cudgels  in  behalf  of  his  four  nieces, 
and  right  valiantly  he  laid  about  him  whenever 
the  head  of  a  Bawkis  adherent  was  lifted  above 
the  counter.  All  the  Holmeses  sang  like  nightin- 
gales, he  declared. 

"A  trained  singer  like  Susan  otter  know," 
he  said.  "What  did  she  stedy  six  weeks  at 
Airy  Grove  fer,  I  say?  The  lily's  the  main 
part  in  the  piece.  The  lily  has  to  do  all  the 
trillin',  an'  trullin',  an'  tra-lahin' — the  things 
that  takes  a  trained  singer." 

Willie  Calker  had  edged  away  from  the  cir- 
cle swept  by  the  old  man's  cane.  "Anna 
Bawkis  'ud  make  most  a  mighty  pretty  lily," 
he  said  stoutly.  "For  my  part,  when  I'm  pay- 
in'  ten  cents  admission,  I'd  ruther  have  a  pretty 

144 


THE  POSY  SONG 

lily  and  plain  singin'  than  a  plain  lily  and 
pretty  singin'."  The  boy  side-stepped  quickly 
to  avoid  the  carte-point  of  the  old  man's  cane. 

"You  hain't  no  call  to  talk  that  way,"  cried 
Martin.  '  *  The  idee  of  a  boy  o '  your  size  speak- 
in'  so  of  weemen!  What  you  want  is  a  circus, 
not  a  con-cert.  And  when  it  comes  to  con- 
certs, the  Holmeses  rules.  Now,  there  was  the 
girls'  older  sister  before  she  mawried " 

"You  mean  Methusela  Holmes?"  inquired 
Willie  innocently. 

The  Holmes  girls'  uncle  executed  a  right 
moulinet,  following  it  with  a  head  cut,  but  the 
boy  had  backed  behind  the  stove. 

"I  mean  Palatia  Holmes,"  shouted  Martin, 
"an'  you  has  no  right  to  talk  so  disrespectful. 
She  was  a  lady.  She  mawried  Oscar  Hocke- 
wout,  from  Turkey  Walley,  a  man  what  could- 
n't raise  a  note,  an'  within  a  year  he  had  the 
most  beautiful  bass  voice  you  ever  listened  to. 
They  ain't  a  man  around  these  parts  can  go 
so  low  as  Ossy  Hockewout.  'Hen  he  sings  it 
sounds  like  it  was  comin'  outen  a  gushin'  well." 

"But  you  take  Susan  Holmes  a-singin'  the 
lily,"  Willie  ventured  from  a  safe  perch  on  the 

145 


SIX  STARS 

counter.  "Did  you  ever  see  a  lily  with  spec- 
tackles?" 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  tulip  with  red  hair,  an' 
a  red  mustache,  an'  pop  eyes,  an'  a  hook  nose?" 
retorted  the  old  man,  pounding  the  floor  with 
his  cane.  "Jest  think  o'  Tom  Bawkis  as  a 
tulip!  Mighty  souls!" 

Echoes  of  these  discussions  reached  the  choir. 
Susan  Holmes  was  naturally  disturbed  by  the 
comment  on  the  physical  charms  of  her  house, 
and  naturally  she  was  more  determined  than 
ever  that  her  family  should  show  what  it  could 
do.  Likewise  with  Thomas  Bawkis,  born  as 
he  had  been  with  a  superabundance  of  feelings. 
Thomas  wore  those  feelings  all  over  him,  and 
it  was  certain  that  they  would  be  hurt  from 
whatever  quarter  he  was  approached.  Now  he 
was  deeply  stung,  and  so  was  more  dogged  than 
ever  in  his  determination  to  show  the  village 
what  his  family  could  do.  Vote  after  vote  was 
taken,  and  still  the  deadlock  was  unbroken.  The 
week  of  the  concert  came,  and  not  one  rehearsal 
of  the  great  sextette  had  been  held,  for  every 
ballot  on  the  lily  question  brought  the  same  re- 
sult— five  votes  each  for  Susan  Holmes  and 

146 


THE  POSY  SONG 

Anna  Bawkis.  Miss  Shooter  was  in  despair. 
She  began  to  arrange  in  secret  for  an  infant 
cantata,  resolved  as  she  was  that  the  pro- 
gramme should  have  at  least  one  feature  more 
unusual  than  the  long  series  of  duets  and  solos. 
Six  Stars  never  heard  that  cantata.  Such 
might  have  been  its  fortune  had  not  Edgar 
Holmes,  sitting  surrounded  by  sisters  at  that 
last  choir  meeting  before  the  great  event, 
chanced  to  catch  the  eye  of  Anna  Bawkis,  who 
was  flanked  at  each  side  by  brothers.  She 
looked  quickly  to  the  music  on  her  lap,  and 
Edgar  strove  to  appear  unconscious  by  study- 
ing the  chart  of  the  posy  song  that  Miss  Myrtle 
had  spread  across  the  wall.  There  he  saw, 
done  in  crayon,  the  post  of  each  flower  on  the 
line  with  the  name  of  the  singer  beside  it,  in  a 
clear,  round,  pedagogic  hand — at  the  left  the 
daisy,  Miss  Emily  Holmes,  contralto,  with  the 
sunflower,  Mr.  Henry  Bawkis,  baritone,  at  her 
side;  at  the  right  the  tulip,  Mr.  T.  Bawkis, 
tenor,  with  the  buttercup,  Miss  Lucy  Holmes, 
mezzo-soprano.  There  was  his  own  place,  Mr. 
E.  Holmes,  basso,  and  beside  him  the  lily,  the 
post  of  honor,  unfilled  and  likely  to  be  vacant 

147 


SIX  STARS 

forever.  He  looked  at  the  girl  again  and  caught 
one  furtive  glance;  then  he  sought  to  hide  his 
confusion  in  his  music. 

The  melody  began  to  ring  through  his  brain, 
and  softly  he  began  to  hum  it,  beating  time  all 
the  while  with  his  head : 

"I'm  a  bio-hud,  re-hed,  ro-ho-hose, 
I  love  the  li-hillie." 

His  sister  Emily  had  to  poke  him  to  call  him 
to  himself  again  long  enough  to  drop  his  bal- 
lot in  the  hat  which  Miss  Shooter  was  passing 
around. 

He  voted.  And  the  deadlock  was  broken! 
Miss  Anna  Bawkis,  6 ;  Miss  Susan  Holmes,  4. 

Miss  Lucy  Holmes  declared  that  some  one 
had  made  a  mistake,  and  she  demanded  that  the 
vote  be  taken  again.  Miss  Martha  supported 
her,  and  so  did  Miss  Emily,  in  spite  of  Miss 
Susan's  assertions  that  it  made  no  difference 
to  her  personally.  Thomas  Bawkis  was  posi- 
tive that  no  mistake  had  been  made,  but  was 
willing  to  accede  to  the  ladies'  demands  and 
allow  one  last  and  decisive  ballot.  Mr.  Bawkis 
was  vindicated  and  Miss  Shooter,  to  anticipate 

148 


THE  POSY  SONG 

further  protests,  ran  to  her  chart  and  wrote 
the  name  of  Anna  Bawkis,  soprano,  beneath 
the  figure  of  the  lily.  A  portentous  silence 
followed,  the  Holmeses  glaring  at  one  another, 
searching  one  another's  blank  faces  for  some 
evidence  of  treachery,  while  the  Bawkises 
smiled  in  triumph. 

* '  It  seems  to  me, ' '  began  Thomas  pleasantly, 
"that  it  is  high  time  we  began  to  practice  the 
piece.  Suppose  them  of  us  as  are  posies  stand 
up  in  line  and  go  over  the  thing  now,  so  as  to 
get  a  general  idee  of  the  whole. ' ' 

He  was  about  to  rise,  when  his  eyes  caught 
the  lily's  part.  He  shot  a  quick  glance  at  his 
sister,  sitting  demurely  at  his  side  studying  her 
notes,  and  from  her  he  looked  to  Edgar  Holmes, 
whose  lips  and  head  were  moving  in  a  musical 
pantomime. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Thomas  then,  with 
sudden  sharpness,  "that  the  rose  otter  be  a 
tenor. ' ' 

The  house  of  Holmes  declared  itself.  The 
music  distinctly  called  for  a  bass,  they  said,  and 
the  tulip  was  the  tenor  part.  If  Mr.  Bawkis 
actually  thought  that  he  knew  more  than  the 

149 


SIX  STARS 

composer,  then  he  and  his  brothers  had  better 
have  a  male  quartet  all  to  themselves  and  be 
done  with  it. 

It  was  hard  for  Mr.  Bawkis  to  overrule  the 
composer,  but  he  did.  He  explained  that  evi- 
dently the  music  had  originally  been  written  for 
a  choir  that  did  not  have  a  competent  tenor,  but 
he  felt  positive  that  his  brother  John  would  be 
able  to  do  the  part  much  more  melodiously,  with 
his  high,  clear  voice,  than  Edgar,  with  his  heavy 
bass — not  but  what  Mr.  Holmes  was  the  best 
in  his  line  in  the  valley. 

Miss  Shooter  was  in  despair.  She  tore  the 
chart  from  the  wall  and  declared  that  she  just 
didn't  care.  She  had  given  all  her  time  and 
thought  and  plannin'  to  that  posy  song;  she 
had  wrote  away  for  the  music ;  she  had  got  the 
paints  to  make  the  flowers  with;  she  had  told 
everybody  all  about  it.  And  here  it  was  all 
fadin'  away  into  an  infant  cantata,  and  if 
there  was  anything  Six  Stars  was  wore  out 
with  it  was  cantatas. 

Well,  and  good,  and  reasonable,  Thomas 
Bawkis  said,  but  just  the  same  the  rose  should 
sing  tenor.  The  whole  idee  of  the  piece  was  a 

150 


THE  POSY  SONG 

passion  song,  the  lily  and  the  rose  singing  of 
their  love,  with  the  other  flowers  .coming  in  as 
seconds,  making  a  background  of  melody,  a 
setting  of  harmony;  love  was  a  high-flying, 
cloudlike  sentiment  that  always  had  its  best 
expression  in  soaring  tenor  tones ;  bass  was  the 
voice  of  great  deeds,  of  power,  of  battle,  and  as 
little  akin  to  tenor  as  accomplishment  to 
promise. 

Susan  Holmes  returned  cuttingly  that  Mr. 
Bawkis  could  sing  both  bass  and  tenor  to  her 
or  to  any  of  her  sisters,  and  she  was  sure  it 
would  not  make  any  difference;  her  own  feel- 
ings on  the  cloudiness  of  the  love  sentiment 
found  no  better  expression  than  in  her  single 
state;  she  noticed,  moreover,  that  all  the  Baw- 
kises  were  tenors — not  that  she  meant  to  im- 
ply anything. 

Miss  Shooter  declared  that  she  never  did  see 
such  people,  and  for  her  part  she'd  have  no 
more  to  do  with  arrangin'  special  sextets;  in- 
fants were  easier  to  handle,  and  she  would  de- 
vote her  time  to  cantatas.  With  that  she  began 
to  gather  up  the  music,  as  a  sign  that  all  was 
at  an  end. 

151 


Henry  Bawkis,  the  sunflower,  not  compre- 
hending the  latest  move  of  the  head  of  his 
house,  nor  understanding  why  he  should  be 
sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  his  brother  John's 
ambition,  suggested  that  they  have  a  ballot  on 
the  rose.  It  was  a  rule  of  the  choir  that  a  vote 
must  be  taken  on  any  question  when  a  member 
demanded  it,  and  both  factions  knew  so  well 
that  this  could  only  be  a  formal  declaration  of 
another  deadlock  that  they  consented.  So  sure 
were  the  Holmeses  of  the  result  that  they  were 
pinning  on  their  hats  and  gathering  up  their 
wraps  while  Miss  Shooter  passed  the  hat  about. 
Thomas  Bawkis  knew  so  well  what  the  vote 
must  be  that  he  declared  angrily  that  some  one 
had  made  a  mistake  when  Miss  Myrtle  an- 
nounced six  votes  for  Edgar  Holmes  and  four 
for  John  Bawkis.  It  was  perfectly  evident,  he 
said,  that  some  one  in  the-  choir  did  not  under- 
stand the  question  at  issue.  Saying  this,  he 
glared  at  his  sister,  who  was  so  occupied  with 
her  music  that  she  seemed  neither  to  see  nor 
hear  him.  Her  lips  were  moving  in  a  mute 
solo;  her  head  was  swinging  in  time  to  the 
music;  her  upturned  eyes  and  arched  brows 

152 


THE  POSY  SONG 

told  that  she  was  taking  a  high  note  in  her 
mind. 

"It  is  perfectly  clear  to  me,'*  said  Thomas, 
' '  that  was  the  real  sentiments,  the  honest  opin- 
ion of  those  present,  expressed  by  the  ballot  on 
the  rose  question,  there  'd  be  a  deadlock. ' ' 

"An'  it's  perfectly  clear  to  me,"  cried  Miss 
Shooter  imperiously,  taking  her  place  at  the 
melodeon  and  opening  out  her  music,  "that  if 
those  of  you  who  are  posies  don't  stand  right 
up  now  an'  begin  practicin'  there  won't  be  a 
deadlock — there'll  be  a  cantata." 

•  •  '•  •  * 

"It  is  through  the  noble  efforts  of  our  choir, 
working  together  by  a  common  impulse  for  a 
common  end,"  said  the  Rev.  Mr.  Spink,  in  open- 
ing the  concert,  *  *  that  we  are  able  to  present  to- 
night a  progrim  of  unrivaled  excellence.  In 
behalf  of  the  entire  community,  I  wish  to  thank 
them."  The  pastor  waved  his  hand  to  the  two 
rows  of  chairs  at  the  end  of  the  platform,  where, 
under  command  of  Miss  Shooter,  the  choir  sat, 
eyes  demurely  downcast,  fumbling  their  music- 
rolls.  "And  I  think,"  continued  Mr.  Spink, 
"that  we  should  now  acknowledge  our  debt 

153 


SIX  STARS 

to  the  others  who  are  to  entertain  us  to-night — 
to  the  little  children  who  are  to  sing;  to  Miss 
Bertha  Sponholler,  who  is  to  render  a  guitar 
solo;  to  William  Calker,  who,  by  the  way  of  a 
variation,  is  to  recite  that  inimitable  dialect 
piece,  'How  Pumpledink  Set  the  Hen.'  " 

Right  heartily  the  audience  acknowledged  its 
debt,  Martin  Holmes,  in  the  front  row,  leading 
the  applause  with  the  loud  thumps  of  his  cane, 
which  continued  long  after  the  general  hand- 
clapping  had  ceased  and  only  stopped  when  his 
wife  peremptorily  clasped  her  hand  on  the  knob 
of  the  stick. 

"Peace,  peace,  peace/'  the  anthem  by  the 
choir,  the  first  number,  was  a  splendid  thing 
to  open  with,  and  set  the  standard  for  the  rest 
of  the  performance.  That  standard  was  main- 
tained. Up  to  the  posy  song  Six  Stars  had 
never  heard  such  a  concert.  Miss  Sponholler 's 
guitar  solo  was  a  novelty,  interesting  to  a  de- 
gree because  of  the  oddity  of  the  instrument. 
Irving  KillowilPs  rendering  of  "I'm  a  Little 
Soldier  Boy,  Brave  and  True,"  evoked  storms 
of  applause,  for  the  village  had  never  seen  it 
done  with  such  an  elaborate  setting,  as  the  boy 

154 


THE  POSY  SONG 

was  in  uniform  and  marched  up  and  down  with 
a  gun,  a  sword  and  a  drum,  while  he  piped  that 
battle-song  of  childhood.  John  Bawkis  's  ' '  Tell 
Me,  Darling,  Dost  Thou  Love  Me,"  cast  over 
the  company  a  soft,  sentimental  mist,  which 
was  swept  away  hy  the  storm  and  riot  of 
Murphy  Kallaberger 's  cornet.  Willie  Calker 
convulsed  the  audience  with  the  classic  story 
of  Pumpledink  and  the  hen,  and  one  and  all 
agreed  that,  though  it  was  not  music,  it  made 
a  welcome  break  in  the  programme.  At  last 
came  the  great  sextet. 

A  posy  song  was  not  the  thing  to  be  stood 
up  and  rattled  off  as  though  it  was  of  no  conse- 
quence. It  required  long,  expectant  waiting 
on  the  part  of  the  audience,  with  frequent  shuf- 
fles of  feet  and  impatient  handclaps.  It  re- 
quired a  curtain  to  be  spread  across  the  church, 
with  mysterious  whispering  and  flutterings  be- 
hind it,  and  Miss  Shooter  running  out  before 
it  every  now  and  then  for  no  other  purpose  than 
to  run  back  again.  Mr.  Spink  had  to  rise  sud- 
denly from  his  pew,  and  go  behind  the  scenes, 
and  come  back  looking  very  serious  and  shaking 
his  head.  Willie  Calker  got  excited  and  pulled 

155 


SIX  STARS 

the  curtains  apart  too  soon,  so  the  cries  behind 
them  drowned  the  applause  of  the  house. 
Everybody  in  the  choir  wanted  to  remove  the 
boy  from  his  post  of  honor,  but  it  was  very 
dark  behind  the  scenes,  the  only  bracket-lamp 
flickering  dreadfully,  and  he  threatened  to  take 
his  new  bull's-eye  lantern  with  him  if  they 
made  him  go.  Miss  Shooter  had  found  that 
indispensable  in  her  work  of  putting  the  last 
touches  on  the  flowers.  Miss  Sponholler  ran 
out  and  got  Mr.  Spink.  The  pastor  hurried  be- 
hind the  scenes  again,  and  returned  to  his  seat 
looking  graver  than  ever.  Miss  Myrtle  absently 
sprang  before  the  curtain,  turned  the  bull's-eye 
on  the  audience,  screamed  and  disappeared. 
The  audience  became  restless,  and  Martin 
Holmes  beat  the  floor  with  his  cane.  John 
Holmes  stepped  forth,  with  one  hand  upraised, 
and  asked  every  one  to  be  quiet,  as  "it"  was 
about  to  begin.  Every  one  obeyed,  and  for  five 
minutes  absolute  silence  reigned.  The  strain 
was  too  much.  Some  bad  boys  in  the  rear  of 
the  church  began  to  whistle  shrilly,  while  the 
better  ones  in  front  hissed.  That  brought  Miss 
Belle  Spink  forth  to  the  melodeon,  and  when 

156 


THE  POSY  SONG 

she  screwed  up  the  stool,  spread  out  the  music 
and  feathered  her  fingers  over  the  keys  every 
one  said,  "At  last!"  and  settled  back  to  real 
enjoyment.  Instead  Miss  Spink  played  a  very 
long  solo.  It  had  the  desired  effect,  for  there 
was  absolute  silence  for  some  minutes  after  she 
had  disappeared  into  the  enshrouded  platform. 
Then  pandemonium  broke  loose.  Mr.  Spink 
had  to  rise  in  his  place  and  quell  the  confusion 
by  an  appeal  for  the  patience  of  the  company. 

But  even  posy  songs  must  begin  some  time. 
Miss  Shooter  took  her  place  at  the  melodeon, 
smiling,  and  all  was  well.  She  screwed  the 
stool  down  again.  She  arranged  the  music. 
She  cried,  "Now!" 

Willie  Calker  drew  the  curtain. 

There  were  the  six  giant  posies  that  Miss 
Myrtle  had  painted  on  a  screen  of  sheets,  all 
in  a  row,  the  daisy  and  the  sunflower,  the  lily 
and  the  rose,  the  buttercup  and  the  tulip.  The 
heads  of  the  singers,  projecting  through  holes, 
formed  the  centres,  about  which  she  had  builded 
and  painted  the  bursting  buds,  with  their  tall, 
green  stalks,  and  so  natural  did  they  look  that 
everybody  cried,  "Ah!"  and  so  prolonged  was 

157 


SIX  STARS 

the  applause  that  it  was  some  moments  before 
Edgar  Holmes  could  start.  At  last  the  melo- 
deon  drowned  the  audience,  and  in  that  heavy 
voice  of  his  he  began : 

"  I'm  a  bio-hud,  re-hed,  ro-ho-hose, 
I  love  the  li-hillee." 

Anna  Bawkis  quickly  demonstrated  that  the 
Holmeses  were  not  the  only  women  in  the  val- 
ley who  could  trill  and  trull  and  tra-lah.  She 
turned  her  eyes  to  the  ceiling  and  went  soaring : 

"  I'm  a  li-hillee, 
A  beutcheous  li-hillee, 
I  love  the  ro-hose." 

And  all  this  time  Henry  Bawkis,  from  the 
sunflower's  heart,  was  baritoning,  "Oh,  fie — 
fie — fie."  And  at  the  other  end  of  the  sheet 
Thomas  Bawkis,  the  tulip,  was  tossing  high 
C's  in  the  air  while  he  sang  of  the  "Blo-uh- 
uh-ud,  re-eh-eh-ed,  ro-ho-ho-hose. "  And  the 
daisy  and  the  buttercup  were  echoing  "She- 
loves-the-ro-hose. ' ' 

The  rose  loved  the  lily.  He  told  her  so  in 
fifty  different  keys.  When  he  was  not  hurling 
it  forth,  the  others  were  doing  so  in  soaring 
notes  while  he  said,  "  Bum-rum- rum- rum-rum- 
rum.  ' ' 

158 


THE  POSY  SONG 

The  lily  loved  the  rose.  She  vowed  it  un- 
blushingly  before  all  that  company.  She  trilled 
it  forth;  she  trailed  it  forth;  she  tra-lahed  it 
forth.  Oft  in  the  dewy  eve,  she  said,  she  thought 
of  him,  when  the  moon  was  gleaming  o'er  the 
sea  and  the  evening  shadows  fell. 

Of  course  everybody  knew  it  was  just  sing- 
ing. Of  course  everybody  would  have  thought 
so  to  this  day  had  it  not  been  for  Willie  Calker. 
Of  course  it  was  purely  an  accident  that  Willie, 
at  his  post  behind  the  scenes  should  turn  his 
lantern  for  just  that  one  second.  It  was  just 
one  second,  too,  but  there  on  the  white  sheet 
glowed  that  fiery  bull  's-eye. 

1 1 1  lo-hove  the  li-hillee, ' '  sang  the  unconscious 
rose. 

"I  lo-hove  the  ro-hose,"  sang  the  unconscious 
lily. 

How  that  posy  song  should  have  ended  Six 
Stars  never  learned.  It  never  saw  another.  Of 
this  one  the  climax  was  a  scream  from  the  lily, 
a  growl  from  the  rose.  The  melodeon  was 
silent  in  a  flash  and  Miss  Shooter  sprang  to 
close  the  curtain.  Then  nothing  could  be  seen. 
There  was  the  wall  of  muslin  to  cover  it  all. 

159 


SIX  STARS 

But  Willie  Calker  could  be  heard  protesting 
that  he  meant  no  harm;  he'd  turned  the  lantern 
around  just  one  teeny  bit  of  a  second;  he  was 
only  curious.  Thomas  Bawkis.  could  be  heard 
declaring  that  he  suspected  it  all  along,  and 
Anna  Bawkis  said  she  didn't  care  who  saw  it, 
and  Edgar  Holmes  proclaimed  his  freedom  in 
no  uncertain  tones.  The  wails  of  the  four 
Misses  Holmes  would  have  drowned  all  else 
had  not  the  audience  risen  to  its  feet  and 
cheered.  Even  the  raised  hand  of  Mr.  Spink 
could  not  silence  the  uproar. 

But  in  the  climax  of  that  posy  song  the  fig- 
ure that  in  the  memory  of  Six  Stars  comes  out 
boldest,  rising  above  the  storm  of  music,  is 
Martin  Holmes,  a  bent  old  form,  standing  there 
that  one  second  when  Willie  Calker  was  curious, 
pointing  with  his  cane  to  the  brilliant  bull's-eye 
among  the  posies  and  to  the  silhouette  there. 

Above  the  melodeon's  wheezy  strains,  above 
the  trilling  and  the  trulling,  above  the  rum-rum- 
rumming  of  the  bass,  sounded  his  high,  cracked 
voice: 

"The  rose  is  a-holtin'  the  lily's  hand." 


160 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SIX  STAES. 

IT  was  on  a  drowsy  August  morning  that  the 
angels  came  to  Six  Stars.  We  worthies 
were  on  our  bench,  our  faces  turned  to  the 
warm  sunshine,  smoking  lazily,  listening  as 
much  to  the  rumble  of  the  mill  as  to  the  mon- 
otonous discourse  of  Andrew  Binn,  for  the 
teacher  was  always  talking.  Andrew  was  like 
the  mill.  Had  he  stopped  we  would  have  looked 
around,  wondering  what  the  trouble  was.  But 
he  was  going  that  day,  steadily,  and  his  dis- 
course would  have  made  no  more  distinct  im- 
pression than  the  thumping  of  the  water-wheel, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  strange  events  that 
followed. 

As  we  recall  it  now,  he  was  telling  us  of  his 
new  home,  for  he  had  just  settled  in  Lucien 
Pulsifer's  little  house  at  the  end  of  the  village. 
He  was  dilating  on  the  beauty  of  tradition.  He 
was  defending  himself  against  the  charge,  as 
yet  not  made,  that  he  was  superstitious. 

161 


"Tray-dition  is  romance,"  he  said.  "It  is 
the  intellectual  heritage  of  a  people.  Now,  sup- 
pose you  uns,  if  you'd  'a'  bought  Pulsifer's 
place,  would  paint  that  Amish  gate  yeller  or 
some  other  fancy  color.  But  I  says  to  myself: 
'What  is  life  without  tray-dition  ?'  The  gate 
was  blue — the  blue  of  heaven — a  sign  to  passin' 
angels  that  here  an  Amishman  lived — a  call  to 
them  to  come  in  and  bless  the  home.  Of  course 
I'm  a  Methodist,  but  I  have  some  artistic  taste. 
I'm  a  bachelor,  and  I  says  to  myself — it  was 
just  a  joke  between  me  and  myself — 'Blue  the 
gate  shall  stay,'  I  says,  'and  mebbe  an  angel 
will  come  some  day  and ' 

Now  it  was  that  the  strange  things  began  to 
happen.  Piney  Kallaberger  appeared,  out  of 
breath  from  hard  running.  Piney  is  generally 
a  harbinger  of  evil. 

"Teacher — teacher — teacher,"  he  cried. 

Andrew  never  liked  to  be  interrupted,  and 
the  frown  on  his  face  checked  the  lad,  who 
clasped  a  hand  to  his  throat  and  gasped. 

"Well,  Piney,"  said  the  pedagogue,  when 
he  had  gazed  the  intruder  into  a  proper  humil- 
ity, "what  can  I  do  for  you!" 

162 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SIX  STARS 

11  No  thin',"  answered  the  boy,  backing  away 
fearfully.  "Nothin',  but " 

"But  what?"  Andrew  Binn's  tone  was  fa- 
therly and  encouraging. 

"Nothin',  but  I  just  seen  two  Amish  ladies 
go  into  your  house, ' '  faltered  Piney. 

Andrew  sprang  to  his  feet.  * i  You  see  what  ? ' ' 
he  cried. 

"I  seen  two  Amish  ladies — two  old  Amish 
ladies — go  into  your  house,"  was  the  whim- 
pered reply. 

"Angels,"  cried  old  Martin  Holmes,  sud- 
denly awaking.  "Mebbe  they  is  angels,"  He, 
too,  was  on  his  feet,  and  he  made  a  feint  at  the 
boy  with  his  stick.  * '  Tell  the  truth — cross  your 
fingers,  sonny  —  honest  Injun  —  had  they 
wings  1 ' ' 

"No,  sir.    They  come  in  a  livery  rigginV 

"They  came  how?"  cried  Andrew,  moving 
to  seize  his  pupil  by  the  collar. 

The  boy  dodged  and  sprang  from  the  porch. 
"They  came  in  a  livery  rigging"  he  answered 
from  the  road.  "The  man  who  was  drivin',  he 
asts  me,  'Is  this  Lucien  Pulsifer's  place?  These 
ladies  has  come  from  Kansas  to  wisit  him,'  he 

163 


SIX  STARS 

says.  When  I  forgot  and  told  him  it  was 
Lucien's  house  he  set  them  down  there 
and " 

" Where  is  he  now?'*  Andrew  shouted,  diving 
at  the  boy. 

But  Piney  shot  away.  "He's  gone,  teacher, 
gone  down  the  big  walley  agin, ' '  he  cried,  as  he 
tore  along,  making  for  a  refuge  behind  the  mill. 

Andrew  Binn  stood  mopping  his  brow  and 
looking  up  the  road  to  the  turn,  as  if  he  would 
bend  his  gaze  there  and  see  his  little  house  at 
the  end  of  the  village. 

" Don't  git  het  up,"  said  Hartin  Holmes 
soothingly.  "It's  only  a  tray-dition,  a  be-yuti- 
ful  tray-dition,  an'  you  must  devote  yourself 
to  fixin'  'em  comfortable.  You  must  make  your 
home  a  heaven  for  'em.  S'pose  we  goes  up 
there  now  an'  sees  about  carrying  in  their 
trunk  an' " 

"Don't  trouble  yourself,"  snapped  the 
teacher.  "I  am  amply  able  to  take  care  of  my 
own  affairs.  When  I  need  your  aid,  rest 
assured,  I'll  ask  for  it." 

He  swung  away  toward  home. 

Martin  Holmes  sat  down  on  the  porch,  threw 
164 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SIX  STABS 

back  his  head  and  pushed  his  beard  up  over  his 
face.  This  was  a  precaution  the  old  man  always 
took  when  suffering  an  extreme  attack  of  mer- 
riment. Seven  of  his  family  had  died  of  apo- 
plexy and  six  of  heart  disease,  and  since  his 
seventieth  birthday  he  had  been  in  constant 
fear  of  "explodin'  "  if  he  allowed  himself  the 
full  enjoyment  of  his  mirth.  Moses  Pole  could 
not  see  what  the  trouble  was  about.  His  wife's 
sister  was  Amish,  and  frequently  made  his  fam- 
ily long  visits  which  they  really  enjoyed,  and 
because  old  Holmes  was  not  religious  was  no 
excuse  for  his  laughing  at  folks  who  were  so 
pious  that  they  wore  no  buttons.  Aaron  Jones 
agreed  fully  with  the  bark-peeler,  and  if  by  any 
chance  the  teacher  was  in  need  of  a  rigging  to 
send  the  Amish  ladies  back  to  the  big  valley, 
there  was  his  white  mule  standing  idle  in  the 
stable.  The  rest  of  the  store  was  non-com- 
mittal. We  had  too  few  facts  to  announce  our- 
selves in  sympathy  with  either  Andrew  Binn 
and  his  romantic  fancies  or  the  aged  and  prac- 
tical Holmes.  We  sat  patiently  on  the  long 
bench,  smoking  and  thinking,  awaiting  the  com- 
ing of  the  pedagogue  with  a  full  report.  He 

165 


SIX  STARS 

allowed  us  nearly  a  half  an  hour  of  meditation 
before  he  reappeared. 

Now,  Andrew  Binn  had  always  prided  him- 
self on  being  high-strung.  He  regarded  him- 
self as  a  delicate  physical  mechanism,  tuned  to 
the  highest  possible  pitch  of  intellectuality,  and 
so,  when  gently  handled,  productive  of  much 
that  was  good  and  beautiful,  but  likely  to  be- 
come unstrung  by  the  slightest  jar.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  in  that  half  hour  something  had  gone 
askew  with  his  intellectual  stringing.  He  was 
badly  out  of  tune. 

"Can  any  of  you  speak  Dutch?"  he  asked, 
after  he  had  mopped  his  face  with  his  ban- 
danna, dusted  the  back  of  his  head  with  it, 
brushed  the  brim  of  his  hat  with  it,  rubbed  up 
the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat  with  it,  and  closed 
by  nicking  the  mud  from  his  shoes.  His  old 
sprightliness  of  manner  was  gone.  The  ques- 
tion came  as  a  plea  for  aid,  not  as  a  demand. 

"I  used  to  could — a  leetle,"  spoke  up  Martin 
Holmes. 

The  crowd  started  and  stared  at  him.  This 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  admitted  knowing 
a  word  of  the  language,  for  he  had  always 

166 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SIX  STARS 

boasted  himself  of  the  purest  Scotch-Irish  de- 
scent, but  now  he  was  smiling  blandly,  as 
though  the  confession  caused  not  the  least  pang. 
Noting  the  general  astonishment,  he  added :  *  *  I 
learned  it  when  I  was  a  drove-yer.  Every  ed- 
dicated  man  should  know  German.  In  fact,  if 
you  are  goin'  to  travel  it's  a  necessity,  for  in 
some  parts  o'  Pennsylwany  you'll  hear  no  thin' 
else." 

''Can  you  speak  it  loud?"  asked  the  teacher, 
laying  a  hand  on  the  old  man's  arm  as  a  sign 
to  him  to  arise  and  follow. 

"Can  I  speak  it  loud?"  cried  Martin,  a  bit 
testily.  "Why,  that's  the  only  way  I  can  speak 
it." 

"The  Amish  ladies  are  de-e-f,"  explained 
Andrew,  tucking  his  arm  lovingly  under  that 
of  his  ancient  enemy. 

Through  the  village  our  little  company  went, 
two  and  two,  Andrew  and  Martin  leading,  a 
solemn  procession,  past  the  public  pump,  around 
the  bend,  through  the  blue  gate  at  the  house  at 
the  end  of  the  street,  and,  without  the  formality 
of  a  knock,  into  the  living  room,  where  the 
strangers  sat,  one  at  either  end  of  the  stove. 

167 


SIX  STARS 

The  visitors  were  evidently  very  much  at  home, 
for  they  had  the  fire  going  and  were  watching 
the  kettle  boil  when  the  company  shuffled  in. 
With  true  earthly  femininity,  each  quickly  ad- 
justed her  white  cap  and  smoothed  the  wrinkles 
from  her  plain,  brown  gown.  Then  they  smiled 
pleasantly. 

"The  Amish  ladies,"  said  Andrew,  waving 
his  hand  toward  the  strangers. 

"The  angels,"  said  Martin  solemnly.  And 
in  a  musing  tone  that  all  might  hear  he  added, 
"About  seventy — no  wings — blue  tin  trunk — 
uses  ear-trumpets — likely  to  bless  the  house 
with  a  good  long  stay. ' ' 

"Mind  here,  Martin,"  exclaimed  Andrew, 
with  a  revival  of  his  old  spirit,  "can't  you 
realize  they  haven't  come  to  visit  me.  It's  Pul- 
sifer  they  came  to  see,  and  I've  tried  for  half  an 
hour  to  explain  to  them  how  as  he  had  moved  to 
loway,  and  all  they  says  is  'yah.'  : 

"Meanin'  yes,"  said  Martin,  gravely  wag- 
ging his  head. 

"Meanin'  nothin',"  snapped  the  teacher. 
"I've  been  yellin'  at  them  in  English  as  loud  as 
I  can  that  they've  made  a  mistake  and  there  is 

168 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SIX  STABS 

no  result.    Watch  the  kettle  boil!    They'll  be 
fryin'  my  ham  next." 

To  relieve  the  embarrassing  silence  that  fol- 
lowed this  one-sided  colloquy,  the  youngest  of 
the  angels  arose  and  rattled  the  stove  door. 
As  she  did  so  her  skirt  caught  her  ear-trumpet 
and  swept  it  to  the  floor.  There  was  a  scramble 
for  it,  and  Andrew,  being  nearest,  secured  it. 

"Now  explain,"  he  commanded  to  Martin, 
waving  his  prize  at  the  angel,  who  had  resumed 
her  place  and  was  groping  about  the  chair  in  a 
vain  search  which  gave  evidence  that,  besides 
being  very  deaf,  she  was  exceedingly  near- 
sighted. 

"You  hold  it  and  I'll  try,"  said  Martin,  with 
a  sigh  of  resignation.  "You  uns  all  knows  I 
never  blowed  about  my  German,  but  mebbe  I 
can  land  a  word  or  two  that  will  help." 

Andrew  placed  the  end  of  the  trumpet  in  the 
angel's  hand,  still  retaining  his  hold  on  it. 
Then  he  drew  the  old  man  toward  him  by  the 
sleeve  and  said  "Begin!" 

The  angel,  understanding  that  her  visitors 
were  about  to  establish  a  line  of  communication, 
smiled  encouragingly  and  prepared  to  listen. 

169 


SIX  STARS 

Martin  handed  his  cane  to  one  of  the  group 
that  pressed  about  him,  and,  leaning  well  over 
with  a  hand  on  each  knee  and  his  mouth  close 
to  the  trumpet,  he  shouted : 

"WiegMtt" 

"Goot,"  the  angel  answered. 

1  'She  says  she  is  well,  an'  so  is  her  sister," 
the  interpreter  explained  gravely,  turning  to 
the  company. 

"It  ain't  her  health  as  is  bothering  us," 
snapped  the  teacher.  "Tell  her  about  Pul- 
sifer." 

"Give  me  time  to  think,"  returned  the  old 
man  angrily.  "German  ain't  so  easy  as  it  looks 
— petickler  when  you  have  to  talk  it  into  a 
machine." 

He  pulled  his  beard  violently,  closed  one  eye, 
and  gazed  at  the  sister  behind  the  stove,  seek- 
ing there  an  inspiration.  It  came  at  last,  and 
he  took  a  long  breath  and  shouted  into  the 
trumpet,  "Wie  bist  du?" 

"GootI"  The  angel  had  raised  her  voice 
until  there  was  a  sharp  ring  in  it.  The  com- 
placent smile  had  disappeared  and  she  frowned 
at  her  inquisitor. 

170 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SIX  STAES 

"She  says  her  sister  is  exceedingly  well — 
exceptional  well,  I  should  jedge  from  the  way 
she  sayd  it,"  Martin  explained. 

"I  could  'a'  found  that  out  be  lookin'  at  'em," 
broke  in  Aaron  Jones. 

"Tell  her  about  Pulsifer,"  cried  the  teacher, 
stamping  his  foot. 

"I  was  leadin'  up  to  that,"  returned  Martin 
blandly.  " Give  me  time,  Andrew.  We  mustn't 
break  it  to  'em  sudden."  He  resumed  his 
crouching  attitude  over  the  trumpet,  and,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  shouted:  "Wo  kommst  du 
hier?" 

The  frown  left  the  angel's  face,  and  she 
smiled  and  nodded. 

"Kansas,"  she  replied. 

"She  says  she  comes  from  Kansas,''  cried 
Martin  in  triumph,  straightening  up  and  smil- 
ing gleefully  at  the  company.  "She  tells  me 
that  the  other  Amish  lady  is  her  sister  an' 
that  she  also  comes  from  Kansas,  an'  that  they 
are  here  to  wisit  Lucien  Pulsifer  who  is  a  rela- 
tion of  some  kind. ' ' 

"Explain  about  Pulsifer."  Binn  laid  an  an- 
gry hand  on  the  old  man's  shoulder,  and  spun 

171 


SIX  STABS 

him  around  and  pushed  him  down  toward  the 
trumpet. 

"  Can't  you  give  me  time,"  Martin  pleaded. 
"She  speaks  low  German;  mine's  high,  an'  it 
takes  a  heap  of  thinkin'  to  get  'em  to  hitch  to- 
gether right. ' ' 

There  was  an  ominous  silence.  To  relieve  its 
embarrassment,  the  sister  behind  the  stove 
arose  and  rattled  the  iron  door.  Martin  stroked 
his  beard  long  and  seriously,  until  at  length 
the  inspiration  came.  Raising  a  warning  finger 
to  still  the  mutters  of  discontent  beginning  to 
arise  from  the  group  behind  him,  he  shouted: 
"Vomwo  bistdu?" 

1 '  Kansas — Kansas — Kansas, ' '  cried  the  angel 
angrily,  tearing  her  trumpet  from  the  teacher 's 
supporting  hand  and  shaking  it  at  the  inter- 
preter. "Kansas,  Ich  sagt — Kansas." 

Martin  took  a  hasty  step  back  to  avoid  the 
waving  instrument,  and,  in  a  voice  now  trem- 
ulous with  emotion,  whether  fear  or  merri- 
ment we  could  not  tell,  he  said,  "She  allows 
she's  from  Kansas — her  sister  is  also  from 
Kansas." 

"Tell  her  about  Pulsifer,"  exclaimed  An- 
172 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SIX  STAES 

drew,  who  had  quickly  recovered  his  hold  on 
the  trumpet  and  dragged  the  old  man  into 
range  again.  The  interpreter  struggled  to  free 
himself. 

"See  here,  you,'*  he  expostulated,  "give  me 
tune.  You  uns  talk  like  German  otter  jest  roll 
offen  my  tongue.  Now,  if  it  was  the  regular 
high,  I  could  tell  her  all  about  Pulsifer,  but  she 
speaks  low.  Her  an'  me  have  come  to  the 
diwidin'  line  of  language.  Why,  I  could  yell 
high  German  at  her  from  now  to  next  Christ- 
mas an'  it  'ud  sound  to  her  about  as  sensible 
as  Latin — can't  you  see  that?" 

"Mind  here,  Martin,"  retorted  Andrew,  "if 
these  weemen  had  settled  in  your  house,  I  allow 
you'd  talk  low  German  first-rate  as  long  as  they 
was  boilin'  your  kittle  and  fryin'  your  ham." 
His  voice  sank  into  an  argumentative  tone.  "I 
haven't  done  you  no  harm,  and  if  you  was  in 
my  place,  and  your  house  was  invaded,  and  you 
come  to  me  and  asted  my  help,  and  I  knowd 
German,  why,  I'd  talk  it,  high,  low  or  mejum, 
whatever  was  needed — you  know  I  would, 
wouldn't  I?" 

The  murmur  of  approval  that  followed  this 
173 


SIX  STAKS 

plea  showed  clearly  that  to  the  minds  of  the 
others  the  matter  had  become  one  of  village 
importance,  and  that  the  sympathy  was  with 
the  pedagogue  in  his  effort  to  drive  the  invad- 
ers from  his  hearthstone.  As  old  Holmes 
scanned  the  faces  behind  him,  he  noted  the  hos- 
tile wagging  of  heads  and  realized  that  the  time 
had  come  for  him  to  make  a  serious  effort  to 
succor  the  teacher.  If  the  mere  wish  would  have 
done  it,  he  would  have  screamed  a  volume  of 
German  into  the  trumpet,  but  when  he  declared 
that  the  angel  and  he  had  come  to  a  parting 
of  the  ways  of  language,  he  had  spoken  truth. 
His  first  offer  to  act  as  interpreter  had  had  its 
rise  not  in  any  desire  to  help  Andrew  in  his  pre- 
dicament, but  in  his  curiosity  to  see  the  angels 
that  had  come  to  bless  the  house  with  the  blue 
gate.  That  blue  gate  had  been  closed  to  him 
until  the  teacher's  need  of  an  interpreter  com- 
pelled him  to  call  in  the  store  for  assistance. 
Then  he  had  made  the  best  of  his  opportunity, 
and  now  he  was  at  his  rope's  end.  He  knew 
it,  but  he  could  not  retire  in  the  face  of  his 
companions'  disapproving  scowls.  So  he  bent 
over  once  more  and  opened  his  mouth  at  the 

174 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SIX  STABS 

trumpet.  He  closed  it  again  and  pulled  at  his 
beard,  as  though  surprised  that  no  word  had 
come  forth. 

* '  Tell  'em  about  Pulsif er,  do,  Martin, ' '  plead- 
ed Andrew. 

"Wie — Wie — Wie/'  the  old  man  began. 

"Go  ahead,"  commanded  Andrew,  giving 
him  a  gentle  shake. 

"Wie,  wie '  The  angel  straightened  up 

and  stared  severely  at  Martin.  If  he  had  any- 
thing to  say,  it  fled  from  him  then. 

"Wie — wie — wie '  He  failed  and  an- 
grily tore  himself  free  of  Andrew,  and  turned 
on  him.  "See  here,"  he  cried,  "I'm  not  goin' 
to  mix  in  no  more  with  my  German.  She  can't 
understand — can't  you  see  that"?  This  here  is 
a  perilous  language  an'  there's  no  tellin'  what 
they  might  think  I  was  sayin'  if  I  spoke  high 
an'  they  thought  it  was  low.  No,  sir,  Andrew 
Binn,  you  painted  your  gate  blue  an'  now  you 
can  lay  on  it. ' ' 

There  was  no  appeal.  With  a  defiant  wave 
of  his  stick,  the  old  man  strutted  out  of  the 
house  to  the  road,  shutting  the  blue  gate  after 
him  with  a  vicious  click.  Perhaps  he  felt  that 

175 


SIX  STARS 

his  retreat  was  inglorious  and  his  conduct  un- 
gracious, for  we  did  not  see  him  at  the  store 
at  all  that  afternoon,  but  when  evening  came, 
bringing  with  it  his  old  ally,  the  darkness,  he 
sidled  up  on  the  porch  and  took  his  place  at 
the  end  of  the  bench.  For  a  long  time  he  was 
unusually  silent,  leaning  forward  and  resting 
his  chin  on  his  cane,  apparently  drinking  in 
the  music  of  the  frogs. 

Suddenly  he  turned  to  the  teacher  and  in- 
quired, "Gone  yit?" 

"Who!"  asked  the  other  sharply. 

"Them  Amish  angels,"  said  the  old  man 
solemnly. 

The  only  reply  was  a  low  growl. 

"Andrew  has  moved  down  to  my  place," 
came  from  the  end  of  the  bench,  where,  in  the 
darkness,  Moses  Pole's  cigar  was  glowing. 
"It's  an  aggerwatin'  situation,  but  what  can  a 
feller  do?" 

"Why  didn't  you  uns  explain  after  I  left!" 
said  Martin  in  an  injured  tone.  "You  was  so 
mad  at  me  fer  mixin'  my  German,  an'  yet  not 
a  hate  would  you  do  for  yourselves.  The  Lord 
helps  them  as  helps  themselves,  an'  them  that 

176 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SIX  STAES 

helps  others  need  no  encouragement,  as  the  fel- 
ler sais." 

"  Didn't  who  explain?"  cried  Andrew. 
"Humph!  Why  they  was  in  hysterics  agin  you 
got  through  with  'em. ' ' 

"They  dropped  their  trumpets,"  Moses  Pole 
put  in. 

"An'  they  jest  wouldn't  tech  'em  agin.  They 
wanted  to  hear  no  more,"  added  Aaron  Jones. 
"The  harder  we  tried  to  explain  the  highsteri- 
caller  they  got." 

"Poor  old  weemen."  Martin's  voice  was 
mournful,  but  he  pounded  the  floor  viciously 
with  his  cane.  "Poor  old  angels — fur  from 
home — nephey  gone — deef  an'  friendless — most 
a 'mighty  sad." 

' '  Sad, ' '  snapped  Binn,  poking  his  aged  neigh- 
bor with  his  elbow.  "Sad?  How  about  me, 
I'd  like  to  know.  I  goes  home  to-night,  allowin' 
I'd  slip  into  bed  early — door  half  open — kitchen 
clear — sneaks  into  me  room  an'  lights  a  can'le, 
an'  there  them  Amish  weemen  was,  the  two 
of  'em,  in  my  bed,  a  sleepin'  away  as  peaceful 
as  lambs.  How  about  me,  Martin — that's  the 
sad  part." 


SIX  STARS 

"You  otter  'a'  woke  'em  up  an'  explained," 
the  old  man  retorted  blandly.  * '  The  hull  thing 
was  scan'alous — you  a  standin'  there  in  them 
poor  Amish  ladies'  room — them  'a'  sleepin'  so 
ca'm,  an'  peaceful,  an'  innercent.  Why  didn't 
you  yell  ? ' ' 

"I  did,"  was  the  teacher's  weary  answer. 
"I  done  it  in  half  a  dozen  languages — I 
jest " 

"Of  course  you  forgot  to  put  in  their  ear 
trumpets — of  course — of  course,"  Martin  cried. 
"It's  easier  to  wake  the  dead  than  the  deef 
without  a  trumpet.  This  thing  is  gittin'  scan'- 
alouser,  an'  scan'alouser.  I'm  tired  of  it.  Next 
you'll  be  after  me  to  go  up  there  to  try  to  wake 
'em  up  in  German — but  I  won't,  boys,  mind 
that — I  won't.  You  don't  git  me  fussin'  no 
more  with  angels." 

He  closed  his  speech  with  a  bang  of  his  cane. 
There  was  silence  on  the  porch,  for  a  long  time, 
till  at  last  Martin  suddenly  arose,  and  pointed 
away  to  the  ridge,  where  a  tiny  red  coal  was 
blazing  among  the  trees. 

"It's  the  moon,  boys,"  he  said,  lifting  his 
cane.  "Mind  how  nice  she  looks!  It's  jest  the 

178 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SIX  STARS 

night  fer  the  angels  to  be  with  us,  an'  the  whole 
walley  seems  to  be  lullin'  'em  to  sleep.  Do  ye 
catch  the  light  yander  on  the  hill?  That's  Har- 
vey Homer;  he's  settin'  late  readin'  the  Good 
Book,  an'  I  allow  mebbe  he's  wonderin'  if  they 
is  such  things  as  angels.  That's  a  good  un  on 
him,  ain't  it,  settin'  up  there  so  ignorant  an* 
innercent,  while  down  here,  right  among  us, 
sleepin'  in  our  beds,  boilin'  our  kittle,  fryin' 
our  ham,  we  have  two  fine  ones!  Accordin'  to 
present  prospects,  they  are  likely  to  spend 
quite  some  time  with  us,  too,  an'  we'll  have 
to  get  together  an'  study  low  German  so  we 
can  make  'em  understand.  Meantime — no  wio- 
lence — mind  ye — no  wiolence.  Some  of  us 
might  go  up  oncet  in  a  while  to  keep  them 
trumpets  workin',  but  there  must  be  no  more 
mobbin' — no  more  mobbin'.  Let's  be  patient- 
like  an'  long-sufferin' — board  the  teacher  free 
an'  lodge  him — stedy  low  German  reg'lar,  an' 
then  mebbe  some  day  they'll  fly  away. 
Angels  is  angels,  even  if  they  is  deef,  and 
they  must  be  treated  respectable.  Ours  is 
short  on  quality,  but  mebbe  if  we  use  'em  right 
the  next  uns  that  comes  to  bless  us  '11  be 

179 


SIX  STARS 

younger  an'  speak  high   German  or  reg'lar 
Pennsylwanyan. ' ' 

Ours  is  a  blessed  valley.  Leave  behind  you 
the  rolling  fields  of  Kishikoquillas,  where  rest 
is  broken  by  the  rumble  of  the  railroad,  distant 
but  eternal,  cross  the  mountain,  and  you  will 
reach  a  land  where  peace  is,  if  the  world  has 
not  racked  your  heart  past  mending,  and  am- 
bition has  not  made  a  glutton  of  you.  Well 
might  angels  tarry  here — especially  if  they 
have  come  from  Kansas!  Out  there  you 
see  the  world  rolling  away  forever;  earth  and 
sky  are  boundless  and  you  so  little.  We  have 
our  mountains  to  shut  the  vastness  out,  and 
fewer  of  us  seem  to  share  the  sunshine.  Our 
part  of  life  is  bigger.  So,  when  you  have  a 
pleasant  house,  with  a  weedless  garden  at 
whose  foot  a  broad  creek  chatters  all  day  long; 
when  a  wide-spreading  tree  drops  yellow  apples 
in  your  very  lap;  and  from  the  benches  on  the 
porch  you  can  watch  the  sun  and  clouds  make 
strange  shadow  puzzles  on  the  hillsides,  you 
probably  will  stay — at  least  till  frost  comes. 

Our  angels  stayed.  They  made  themselves 
180 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SIX  STAES 

thoroughly  comfortable  against  the  return  of 
Pulsifer.  Long  we  debated  how  to  set  them 
right  again,  and  start  them  on  their  way,  but 
the  counsel  of  Martin  Holmes  always  prevailed. 
His  advice  was  reasonable,  and  so  easy  for  all 
but  the  teacher  to  follow  that  we  began  to  ac- 
cept it  without  question.  But  Andrew  wearied 
of  his  banishment  from  his  own  roof  after  a 
day  or  two,  and  began  to  clamor  for  an  eviction. 
It  was  easy  enough,  he  argued,  for  the  others 
to  allow  the  angels  to  stay  so  complacently  in 
his  house  and  live  on  his  larder.  Were  it  only 
for  a  day  or  week,  he  would  not  object,  but  he 
might  have  to  wait  for  them  to  die  before  he 
could  return  to  enjoy  the  home  he  had  won  by 
years  of  intellectual  labor  of  the  hardest  and 
most  trying  kind.  Six  Stars  admitted  this. 
But  where  was  the  remedy,  except  to  wait  f  He 
could  not  shoot  them.  To  turn  them  out  he 
would  have  to  use  force,  and  the  village  would 
not  see  a  hand  laid  on  two  deaf  old  women  who 
were  hurting  no  one  one.  It  was  proper  that 
Andrew  should  argue  with  them.  It  was  all 
right  for  him  to  visit  them  daily  and  enact  a 
pantomime  intended  to  convey  to  them  the  idea 

181 


SIX  STAES 

of  their  nephew  packing  his  trunk  and  depart- 
ing for  Iowa.  More  than  this  Six  Stars  would 
not  allow.  So  he  sat  on  the  store  porch  and 
fumed. 

The  pantomime  was  in  vain.  Day  after  day 
the  teacher  visited  his  house  and  went  through 
the  mute  performance,  but  seeing  a  gaunt, 
sallow  man  enter  their  little  kitchen,  unpack  a 
carpet-bag  on  the  floor,  replace  it,  and  then 
walk  out  of  the  door  and  through  the  gate, 
pointing  off  into  the  blue,  presumably  toward 
Iowa,  conveyed  no  idea  to  the  angels  except 
that  this  was  the  village  idiot.  Every  perform- 
ance made  this  conviction  firmer,  and  they 
smiled  with  pity  on  what  little  of  the  dumb 
play  their  nearsightedness  permitted  them  to 
see. 

Six  Stars  was  patient ;  Andrew  Binn  restless 
and  fiery.  Martin  Holmes  said  wait.  And  the 
old  man  was  right.  A  letter  came  one  day,  ad- 
dressed to  the  mayor,  and,  there  being  no  such 
officer  in  the  village,  Ned  Smith,  by  virtue  of 
his  postmastership,  opened  it.  Then  he  quickly 
dispatched  Piney  Kallaberger  from  house  to 
house  to  assemble  the  male  populace.  To  this 

182 


THE  ANGELS  OF  SIX  STAES 

solemn  company  he  read  from  the  long  sheet 
of  foolscap  a  communication  from  his  honor, 
the  mayor  of  Keoria,  Kansas : 

' '  Sir — I  am  requested  by  Mr.  Fritz  Kalkarp, 
a  respected  Amish  gentleman  residing  in  this 
vicinity,  to  demand  that  you  take  immediate 
steps  for  the  protection  of  his  sisters,  the 
Misses  Kalkarp,  who  are  now  in  your  midst, 
being  daily  subjected  to  untold  indignities. 
Going  to  your  town  to  visit  their  nephew,  one 
Pulsifer,  they  found  him  missing,  and,  being 
his  nearest  of  kin,  settled  on  his  property. 
They  have  written  to  Mr.  Kalkarp  than  an  ef- 
fort has  been  made  to  drive  them  from  their 
home;  a  riotous  crowd  of  men  have  visited 
them  almost  daily,  greatly  disturbing  their 
peace  of  mind  by  making  light  of  their  unfor- 
tunate physical  affliction  of  deafness.  Their 
sleep  has  been  even  disturbed  by  a  lunatic,  who 
has  ruthlessly  entered  their  room  at  night.  This 
said  person  has  caused  them  the  greatest  trou- 
ble. They  say  he  seems  to  labor  under  the  hal- 
lucination that  he  owns  the  house.  I  appeal  to 
you,  sir,  in  the  name  of  decency  and  justice,  to 

183 


SIX  STARS 

act  at  once  to  insure  the  safety  of  these  re- 
spected Amish  ladies. 
"I  am,  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

"ABCHIBALD  MASTERS,  Mayor." 

Andrew  Binn  crumpled  the  county  paper  into 
a  ball  and  hurled  it  violently  at  the  stove,  as  if 
he  saw  there  his  honor  of  Keoria.  Before  he 
could  speak  Martin  Holmes  placed  one  hand 
on  his  shoulder  and  gently  tapped  him  with  the 
head  of  his  cane.  "You  have  been  long-suffer- 
ing Andrew,"  the  old  man  said,  in  a  more  gentle 
tone  than  he  usually  used  toward  the  teacher; 
"you  have  been  noble — but  you  insisted  in  be- 
lievin'  in  blue  gates,  an'  you  reaped  your  re- 
ward. We  all  sayd  wait,  for  there  was  nothin' 
else  to  do,  but  now  the  end's  come.  It's  a  long 
way  to  Kansas,  but  jest  you  buy  a  sheet  o' 
paper,  an  envelup  an'  a  stamp,  and  we'll  explain 
to  this  here  mayor  of  Keoria  about  Pulsifer. 
He'll  tell  Kalkarp,  an'  I  allow  that  that  Amish 
gentleman  won't  miy  high  an'  low  German,  an' 
tangle  'em  up  in  those  ear-trumpets." 

So  the  angels  left  us.  A  livery  rigging  came 
from  the  big  valley  for  them  not  many  days 

184 


* 
THE  ANGELS  OF  SIX  STABS 

later,  and,  as  they  drove  away,  we  stood  by  the 
blue  gate  and  watched  them. 

' '  They  has  flew  away,  boys, ' '  Martin  Holmes 
said,  pointing  to  a  cloud  of  dust  on  the  hill  by 
the  peach  orchard.  ''They've  gone,  like  Elijy, 
takin'  their  blue  tin  trunk  an'  ear-trumpets 
with  'em.  They've  left  the  house,  an' — 
an' —  What's  that  you  have  in  your  hand, 
Andrew!  White  paint — a  can  of  it?  Mighty 
souls,  man,  don't  git  discouraged  by  jest  the 
one  catch.  Mind  the  tray-dition — the  be-uyti- 
ful  tray-dition  of  the  angels,  an'  the  blue  gate." 


185 


A  BACHELOR  OF  ELEMENTS 

HERE'S  your  News,"  the  storekeeper  said, 
pushing  the  county  paper  very  formally 
through  the  little  window  in  the  case  of 
glass-fronted  pigeon-holes  at  the  end  of  the 
counter.  After  he  had  critically  inspected  the 
letter  he  held  in  his  hand,  he  passed  that 
through  the  window,  too.  Then  he  peered 
around  the  side  of  the  post-office  to  see  how  it 
was  received. 

The  fortunate  one  was  a  tall  young  man,  who 
stood  hesitatingly  eying  the  missive;  now  the 
back,  now  the  front,  upside  down  and  catty- 
cornered,  as  if  he  doubted  that  it  was  for  him. 
But  it  was  for  him.  There  in  a  bold  copy-book 
hand,  every  letter  perfect  in  its  form  and  slant, 
was  written: 

Mr.  Robert  Twoller,  B.  E., 

City. 
186 


A  BACHELOE  OF  ELEMENTS 

" Isn't  it  yours,  Rawb?"  inquired  the  store- 
keeper testily,  as  though  the  delay  were  cheat- 
ing him  out  of  some  choice  bit  of  news. 

The  other  made  no  reply,  but  he  drew  a  knife 
from  his  pocket,  carefully  opened  the  envelope 
and  walked  to  the  window,  where,  in  the  seclu- 
sion formed  by  his  own  back,  he  could  be  alone. 

This  is  what  he  read : 

"Mr  DEAB  MB.  TWOLLEB: 

"Your  kind  bequest  that  I  be  your  lady  this 
evening  at  the  lecture  on  Success,  at  the  Teach- 
ers'  Institute  by  the  Rev.  Waldo  Tangerian, 
the  converted  Turk,  has  been  received  and  is 
excepted  with  pleasure.  I  will  be  ready  the 
minute  of  six,  so  you  need  not  hitch  when  you 
come  to  the  house.  Just  call  good  and  I  will 
run  out.  Your  affectionate  friend, 

"  VIOLA  KATE  COOPEB." 

"Isn't  it  for  you,  RawM"  again  inquired  the 
storekeeper  in  his  most  insinuating  tones,  loung- 
ing out  from  his  post  behind  the  counter. 

The  only  reply  that  he  got  was  a  smile. 

"The  handwrite  was  that  of  a  stranger,"  he 

went  on.    "It  puzzled  me,  it  did,  and " 

187 


SIX  STABS 

This  Kobert  Twoller  was  a  peculiar  fellow! 
For,  though  he  smiled  again — a  bland,  good- 
humored  smile,  he  stepped  quickly  out  of  the 
door,  slamming  it  most  impolitely.  But  he  had 
a  right  to  smile.  The  note  more  than  made  up 
for  the  disappointment  of  the  previous  day, 
when  Viola  had  been  unable  to  attend  the  insti- 
tute at  Pleasantville  and  hear  him  read  his 
paper  on ' '  The  Best  Methods  of  Diagramming. ' ' 
That  paper  was  the  effort  of  his  life,  and  he 
had  wanted  her  to  witness  his  triumph.  All  the 
teachers  in  the  county,  assembled  in  the  court- 
house, had  heard  his  argument,  and  they  were 
unanimous  in  declaring  that  he  had  clearly 
proved  the  superiority  of  his  system.  He  had 
shown  them  that  it  confused  the  youthful  mind 
to  diagram  a  sentence  after  this  manner : 


John    | 


hit 


William  | 


big 


hard 


little 


188 


A  BACHELOR  OF  ELEMENTS 

Much  easier  of  comprehension  by  the  young 
pupil  was  his  method  of  the  juxtaposition  of 
the  subject,  predicate,  and  object,  with  the  modi- 
fying adjectives  and  adverb : 

John  |  hit     |      William 


b 

h 

1 

i 

a 

i 

g 

r 

t 

a 

t 

1 

e 

He  had  wanted  her  to  witness  his  triumph, 
but  a  headache  had  played  him  false.  He  had 
even  doubted  that  headache,  and  had  feared  to 
risk  another  rebuff;  but  to-morrow  she  was  to 
leave  East  Harmonsville  and  return  to  her 
home  in  Kishikoquillas ;  so,  in  a  nervous  hand, 
he  had  written  his  request  that  she  accompany 
him  to  the  lecture  by  the  converted  Turk.  She 
had  accepted.  To-night  he  was  to  have  a  seven- 
mile  drive  with  her,  and  if  in  all  that  distance, 
skimming  along  in  the  silence  of  the  snow- 
muffled  night,  he  could  not  tell  her  all  that  was 
nearest  his  heart,  then  seven  miles  home  from 
Pleasantville  still  remained. 

189 


SIX  STAES 

As  he  walked  up  the  village  street,  pressing 
her  note  in  his  hand,  he  planned  it  all  out. 
After  they  had  gone  a  great  while,  away  from 
the  town,  out  into  the  white,  silent  land,  so  far 
that  it  would  seem  that  in  all  the  universe  they 
were  alone — just  the  two  of  them — he  would 
tell  her.  Perhaps  she  would  open  up  by  say- 
ing, "I'm  going  to  Kishikoquillas  to-morrow." 
Then  he  would  trust  the  choosing  of  the  way 
to  that  wise  horse  of  his,  and  would  whisper : 
"Don't,  Miss  Cooper.  I  know  Kishikoquillas 
is  a  nicer  valley  than  ours,  and  that  there  you 
will  find  men  more  worthy  of  you.  I  offer  you 
all  I  have.  I've  a  farm.  It's  small,  but,  with 
the  help  of  lime  and  phosafits,  it  will  raise 
enough  for  two.  I've  a  school,  and  the  East 
Harmonsville  school  is  one  of  the  best  in  the 
county.  I'm  finely  educated,  as  you  can  see  by 
my  degree.  I  got  it  at  the  Airy  Grove  Normal 
School.  I'm  a  Bachelor  of  Elements." 

They  drove  that  night  through  the  white, 
silent  country  as  he  had  planned.  They  were 
all  alone,  side  by  side,  in  the  close  grasp  of 
the  sleigh.  In  the  starlight  and  snowlight  he 
could  see  the  girl's  face,  framed  in  a  red  hood 

190 


A  BACHELOR  OF  ELEMENTS 

and  rosy  in  the  keen  wind.  Her  mood  was 
quieter,  too,  and  she  did  not  chaff  him,  as  was 
her  liking  so  often,  but  spoke  in  a  gentle  pen- 
siveness.  Then,  after  a  long  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  jingle  of  the  bells  and  the  crunch- 
ing of  the  snow  beneath  hoof  and  runner,  she 
said:  "I'm  going  back  to  Kishikoquillas  to- 
morrow;" and  he  said,  "Kishikoquillas  must 
be  a  nice  place. ' '  His  opportunity  had  passed ! 
It  was  a  pure  slip  on  his  part,  he  told  himself 
again  and  again,  and  if  she  had  not  taken  him 
so  by  surprise  he  would  have  swung  in  with 
his  declaration.  Woman-like,  she  gave  him  no 
other  chance.  She  spoke  again,  but  it  was  to 
complain  of  the  cold,  and  by  the  time  he  had 
prepared  himself  for  his  ordeal  they  were  at 
the  court-house  steps,  in  the  full  glare  of  the 
light  that  streamed  from  the  open  doorway. 

When  Robert  Twoller  allowed  himself  that 
margin  of  the  seven  miles  homeward  drive  in 
event  of  his  first  failure,  he  had  reckoned  with- 
out the  Rev.  Waldo  Tangerian,  and  the  convert- 
ed Turk's  personality  was  not  to  be  slighted. 
The  man's  dark  face,  his  long  hair,  massive 
shoulders,  tall,  loosely  hung  frame  spoke  of 

191 


SEX  STARS 

power  to  Robert  the  moment  the  young  man's 
eyes  rested  on  him.  And  the  impression  gained 
by  this  inspection  from  the  seat  in  the  centre  of 
the  crowded  court-room  was  strengthened  and 
garnished  by  Associate  Judge  Spong. 

"Our  privilege  to-night  is  a  great  one,"  said 
Judge  Spong.  He  stood  forth  in  the  yellow 
lamp-glare,  his  sack  coat  carefully  folded  back 
as  to  show  a  broad  expanse  of  shirt  bosom, 
bounded  by  a  low-cut  waistcoat  of  fancy  cloth, 
with  a  heavy  gold  watch  chain  stretching  across 
in  front.  "Not  only  to  the  teachers  of  the 
county,  gathered  here  in  convention,  but  to  the 
laymen  I  see  with  us  to-night,  it  will  come  as 
an  inspiration  to  see  and  hear  the  words  of  one 
who,  throughout  all  this  broad  land  of  ours, 
stands  forth  as  the  very  apotheosis  of  suck-cess. 
Born  in  an  humble  hut  in  the  Carpathian  Moun- 
tains, of  a  Turkish  father  and  a  Turkish 
mother,  and  all  that  means,  surrounded  in  in- 
fancy by  all  the  darkness  of  that  pagan  land, 
he  has  risen  to  the  heights  where  few  men  tread. 
The  little  Turkish  boy  is  to-day  a  Christian 
minister,  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  greatest 
churches  in  the  great  city  of  Philadelphia.  But 

192 


A  BACHELOR  OF  ELEMENTS 

a  few  days  since  it  was  my  privilege  to  visit 
him  in  his  lovely  home  in  Spring  Garden  Street, 
where  he  gathers  about  him  all  the  greatest  and 
wisest  of  the  land,  and,  standing  there  on  the 
threshold,  I  cried  aloud  to  myself,  'Suck-cess — 
aye — suck-cess!'  : 

Success  was  the  watchword  of  the  night! 
The  very  air  seemed  charged  with  achievement ! 
Fame  was  at  everybody's  hand,  and  awaiting 
only  for  an  introduction. 

"When  I  think  of  suck-cess,"  began  the  con- 
verted Turk,  after  he  had  taken  a  copious 
draught  of  water  and  paused  a  moment  till 
there  was  absolute  silence  save  for  the  clink- 
ing of  the  ice  in  the  pitcher  at  his  side, ' '  I  have 
only  to  turn  to  my  right  hand  and  look  on  the 
distinguished  jurist  who  has  presented  me  to 
you  with  such  kind  words."  Now  the  Associate 
Judge,  as  everybody  knows,  is  a  coal  dealer 
whose  legal  activities  are  confined  to  road  views 
and  the  minor  duties  of  the  court ;  but  that  made 
no  difference  to  the  Reverend  Waldo.  "I  can 
not  tell  you  how  well  we  in  Philadelphia  love 
Judge  Spong,"  he  went  on.  "I  can  not  tell 
you  how  grand  it  is,  my  dear  friends,  that  a 

193 


SIX  STABS 

community  should  have  in  its  midst  such  a  mon- 
ument of  judicial  integrity  and  learning,  such 
a  shining  beacon  of  Christian  virtue  and  char- 
ity, and  withal  so  modest  and  simple." 

The  distinguished  Turk  turned  on  his  heels 
and  bowed  to  Judge  Spong.  The  distinguished 
jurist  acknowledged  the  compliment  with  an 
inclination  of  the  head  and  a  deprecating  wave 
of  a  fat  hand.  The  lecturer  did  not  stop  to 
press  the  point  further  home,  but  proceeded  to 
place  himself  on  friendly  terms  with  his  audi- 
ence by  drawing  a  large  handkerchief  from  the 
tails  of  his  frock  coat.  Dignity  vanishes  before 
a  sneeze.  The  pocket-handkerchief  is  the  flag 
of  humanity.  It  always  flies  inverted,  the  en- 
sign of  our  mortality.  The  Eeverend  Waldo 
knew  that.  He  signalled  thus  to  the  uttermost 
part  of  the  hall  that,  though  he  was  great,  he 
was  still  a  man,  like  the  humblest  teacher  before 
him. 

The  opening  was  very  simple  and  quiet. 
Life,  the  speaker  said,  was  like  a  ladder,  up 
which  we  climb  rung  by  rung.  Some  reach  the 
top  where  Success  is,  and  from  that  high  pin- 
nacle view  the  world.  Others  fall  back,  then 

194 


A  BACHELOR  OF  ELEMENTS 

struggle  up  again,  only  to  fall  once  more  and 
sink  at  last  in  the  mire  of  Failure !  The  Rev- 
erend Waldo  smiled.  There  flashed  to  his  mind 
the  case  of  a  German  he  once  knew,  an  honest, 
simple-minded  man,  who  bet  a  dollar  that  an 
Irishman  could  not  carry  him  up  a  ladder  to 
the  top  of  a  three-story  dwelling.  Success  was 
in  the  Irishman's  grasp.  The  roof  was  almost 
in  his  reach  when  he  cried:  "I  lose!"  and 
dropped  the  German.  The  Teuton  died,  the 
Reverend  Waldo  said. 

Through  the  court-room  there  was  a  solemn 
silence,  then  an  uncertain  shuffling  of  feet,  then 
a  titter  and  a  roar. 

Robert  Twoller  for  an  instant  felt  a  pang 
of  sympathy  for  the  German.  Then  he  leaned 
back  and  laughed,  and  laughed,  and  poked  Viola 
with  his  elbow. 

"He  is  certainly  good!"  he  exclaimed. 

But  if  Robert  expected  that  this  lecture  was 
to  deal  with  the  lighter  things  of  life,  he  was 
mistaken;  for,  while  the  speaker  at  times  re- 
lieved the  solemnity  of  his  rolling  periods  with 
felicitous  anecdotes  of  the  Irishman,  the  Negro, 
or  the  Little  Girl  in  his  church  at  home,  the 

195 


SIX  STARS 

trend  of  his  thought  was  to  inspire  his  hearers 
to  noble  effort  and  accomplishment.  Robert 
felt  himself  carried  away  from  the  littleness  of 
his  own  life,  from  the  narrowness  of  his  valley 
and  the  pettiness  of  his  village,  to  the  great 
world  where  men  fought  and  died  for  right  and 
wrong.  With  Alexander  he  conquered  the 
world;  with  Caesar  he  ruled  Rome;  with  Napo- 
leon, the  Corsican  lad,  he  battled  his  way  to  a 
throne ;  with  Lincoln,  the  rail-splitter,  and  Gar- 
field,  of  the  tow-path,  he  cut  his  way  to  the 
White  House.  In  one  of  those  solemn  intervals, 
while  Tangerian  poured  a  glass  of  water  and 
drained  it,  the  young  man  turned  to  himself 
again.  What  stupidity  and  egotism  had  been 
his !  But  for  this  great  Turk 's  awakening  him 
he  would  have  gone  on  forever,  puffed  up  with 
the  pride  of  his  little  learning  and  his  B.  E. 
Now  only  the  wisdom  of  a  Galileo  or  a  Newton 
could  appease  his  hunger  for  knowledge;  only 
the  glory  of  a  Darwin  could  quench  his  thirst 
for  fame.  On  the  morrow  he  would  place  his 
foot  upon  the  ladder  and  begin  the  climb.  He 
promised  himself  that,  as  the  Reverend  Waldo 
was  for  the  last  time  signalling  with  his  hand- 

196 


A  BACHELOR  OF  ELEMENTS 

kerchief  that  he  was  human  and  susceptible  to 
draughts,  before  he  began  the  peroration  that 
was  to  draw  his  hearers  to  the  perilous  edges 
of  their  seats  and  silence  their  restless  breath- 
ing and  unruly  heart-beats. 

"Isn't  he  lovely?"  whispered  Viola. 

"He's  elegant,"  was  the  answer. 

Robert  had  forgotten  the  girl.  Now  she  came 
to  him  as  an  unpleasant  reality.  He  looked  at 
her  and  wondered  how  he  had  ever  dreamed  of 
hampering  himself  in  his  climb  with  the  burden 
of  such  a  plump  little  thing  as  she  was.  Viola 
was  pretty,  distractingly  so,  but  the  soldier 
going  forth  to  battle  does  not  encumber  himself 
with  beautiful  works  of  art.  She  was  fair  to 
look  at,  she  was  gentle  and  good  to  be  with,  and 
were  he  to  waste  his  life  away  in  his  own  val- 
ley, he  could  ask  no  better  company.  But  a 
new  life  had  opened  to  him.  He  was  called 
to  high  endeavor.  Perhaps  when  he  reached 
the  topmost  rung  he  would  find  there  waiting 
for  him,  with  smiling  face  and  outstretched 
hands,  a  woman  worthy  of  a  victor.  Bona- 
parte, the  poor  Corsican  boy,  had  won  a  prin- 
cess of  Austria,  Tangerian  said,  and  in  the 

197 


SIX  STARS 

great  preacher's  own  congregation  a  young  man 
who  had  begun  life  as  a  homeless  newsboy 
had  just  earned  the  hand  of  the  fairest  and 
richest  woman  in  Spring  Garden  Street. 
Robert  smiled  when  he  thought  of  his  own 
escape.  The  Fates  had  been  with  him  on  that 
seven-mile  drive,  and  they  would  be  with  him 
on  the  morrow  and  ever  after  as  he  fought  his 
way  alone  to  Success. 

Tangerian  said  it  was  grand  to  fight  alone, 
in  the  glory  of  one's  own  strength.  He  paused. 
With  hands  folded  behind  him,  he  walked  thrice 
across  the  platform.  Turning  slowly  on  his 
heels,  with  martial  precision,  he  raised  one 
hand  and  pointed  away  off  into  the  Future. 

"We  look  down  the  river  of  Time,"  he  said. 
"Ceaselessly  it  flows  before  us.  Countless  are 
its  whirlpools  and  its  eddies.  We  shudder  as 
we  contemplate  its  cruel  rocks  and  fearful 
rapids.  And  you  and  I — shall  we  cast  ourselves 
upon  the  waters!  Shall  we  float  down  that 
ceaseless  river,  paper  ships,  to  be  hurled  about 
on  every  tide  and  eddy,  until  at  last  we  are 
swallowed  up  in  the  vast  sea  of  nonentity? 
Shall  we,  I  say?  Or  shall  we,  with  mighty 

198 


A  BACHELOR  OF  ELEMENTS 

stroke  of  arm,  breast  the  rapids  and  the  whirl- 
pools, swimming  ever  upward,  heedless  of  the 
countless  perils,  spurning  jutting  rock  and  cruel 
eddy,  until  at  last  we  reach  that  high  plain 
whence  flows  the  river,  and  there,  looking  out, 
survey  the  world?" 

It  seemed  to  Robert  Twoller  that  he  had  be- 
gun to  swim.  All  around  him  the  teachers 
surged,  and  he  stupidly  pulled  on  his  overcoat 
and  twisted  his  muffler  about  his  neck  without 
helping  Viola  with  her  tangled  wraps.  He 
plunged  down  the  crowded  aisle  aimlessly, 
while  she  hurried  after  him,  and  they  were 
away  out  in  the  white,  silent  country  before 
either  spoke. 

"I'm  going  back  to  Kishikoquillas  to-mor- 
row, ' '  the  girl  ventured. 

' '  How  ? ' '  said  Robert  absently. 

"I  said  I'm  going  back  to  Kishikoquillas  to- 
morrow," the  girl  answered. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  "that  will  be  nice.  How  was 
it  that  last  piece  run?"  He  pointed  to  the 
moon  with  his  whip.  *  *  Shall  we  breast  the  rip- 
ples and  the  pools,  swimmin'  up  stream,  never 
heedin'  the  countless  pur 'Is,  till  at  last  we  reach 

199 


SIX  STARS 

that  high  point  whence  the  river  comes,  and, 
lookin'  away,  surveys  the  world?'* 

Most  women  have  to  float  down  the  river  of 
Tune,  anyway;  so  Viola  was  not  much  inter- 
ested in  the  problem  of  swimming  up  stream. 

"I  like  it  so  much  in  East  Harmonsville, " 
she  said.  "It's  a  lovely  place." 

"It's  so  slow  and  out  o'  the  way,"  returned 
Robert.  "What  was  it  Tangerian  sayd?  It 
run  like  this — don't  you  mind? — 'I,  too,  would 
sleep  away  my  life  amid  some  sylvan  scene ;  I, 
too,  would  wander  ever  amid  the  fields  of  golden 
posies  and  along  the  silver  streams,  but  ever  in 
my  breast  I  hear  a  call. '  : 

"Well,  how  nice  any  place  is  depends  who 
else  is  there,"  the  girl  said  softly. 

Robert  was  worried.  He  brought  his  whip 
down  from  the  moon  to  the  back  of  his  horse, 
sending  the  animal  ahead  with  redoubled  speed 
towards  home  and  safety.  Robert  was  wary 
too. 

"That's  so,"  he  said.  "But  don't  you  mind 
how  Tangerian  told  about  leavin'  his  home  in 
the  Carpathian  Mountains,  sayin'  good-bye  to 
his  mother  and  father  and  all  them  Turkish 

200 


A  BACHELOR  OF  ELEMENTS 

brothers  and  sisters,  in  answer  to  the  call? 
That  was  elegant,  wasn't  it?" 

"It  was  beautiful,"  the  girl  answered  feebly. 

She  was  eying  him  so  curiously,  so  gently 
that  for  the  moment  he  almost  forgot  the  lad- 
der to  success;  he  almost  forgot  the  converted 
Turk  and  his  inspiration;  he  almost  plunged 
head-foremost  into  the  mire  of  Failure.  But 
he  braced  himself.  He  was  breasting  an  angry 
rapid,  he  said  to  himself,  and  he  struck  out 
with  his  arm  and  the  whip  came  down  on  the 
horse's  back  again. 

To  Robert  Twoller  those  seven  miles  seemed 
endless.  To  Viola  Cooper  they  flashed  by.  To 
the  horse  the  master  had  gone  mad,  urging  him 
on  this  way,  ceaselessly  sawing  at  the  bit,  with 
the  whip  always  cruelly  thrashing.  And  there 
was  no  rest,  up  hill  or  down,  until  they  jingled 
into  the  village  and  drew  up  before  the  Hanna- 
berrys '  house,  where  Viola  was  staying.  There 
she  left  them,  and  the  panting  horse,  with  reins 
dragging  loose,  walked  home  to  his  stable. 

Ambition  moves  the  world,  Tangerian  said. 
But  when  ambition  has  slept  all  night  after  a 
drive  of  seven  miles  in  zero  weather,  when  it 

201 


SIX  STAES 

awakens  to  be  confronted  with  ice  in  the  pitcher 
and  fires  unlighted,  its  ardor  is  likely  to  be 
cooled.  The  Reverend  Waldo,  in  his  comfort- 
able home  in  Spring  Garden  Street,  could  men- 
tally soar.  Robert  Twoller,  shivering  in  his 
room  before  that  ice-capped  pitcher,  had  but 
one  ambition,  and  that  was  a  furnace-heated 
house.  And  this  was  the  day  he  was  to  begin 
to  climb!  He  mounted  the  first  rung  in  the 
ladder  by  getting  warm.  On  the  second  rung  he 
paused  to  eat  his  breakfast.  There  seemed 
to  be  no  other  rungs  above  him.  Just  how  to 
go  on  climbing  was  a  problem.  He  smoked 
his  Sunday-morning  pipe  and  thought  it  all 
over.  If  he  had  a  furnace-heated  house  he 
would  not  know  the  joy  of  thawing  out  before 
a  ten-plate  stove.  He  began  to  suspect  that  the 
converted  Turk  had  misled  him.  After  all 
there  might  be  some  comfortable  perches  lower 
down  the  ladder  where  one  could  rest  in  peace ; 
there  might  be  some  delectable  island  in  that 
wondrous  river  where  one  could  tarry  in  com- 
fort, little  harmed  by  the  swirling  eddies ;  there 

might  be 

Outside  sleigh-bells  were  sounding.    He  ran 
202 


A  BACHELOR  OF  ELEMENTS 

to  the  window  and  peered  through  the  frosted 
glass,  to  see  Viola  Cooper,  with  her  fat  horse 
and  Dunkard  sleigh,  jogging  away  from  his 
life  forever,  back  to  the  rolling  fields  of  Kishi- 
koquillas,  that  land  of  plenty. 

The  fat  horse  was  a  slow  horse,  and  in  a 
minute  Robert  was  abreast  of  him. 

" Where  are  you  going?"  he  demanded  of 
the  girl  when  she  had  reined  up. 

"I'm  going  back  to  Kishikoquillas, "  said 
she.  "And  you?" 

"I'm  startin'  to-day  to  climb  the  ladder  of 
suck-cess,"  the  young  man  answered,  smiling; 
"but  I  can't  find  the  first  rung.  I'm  lookin' 
for  a  rung." 

"And  what  will  you  do  with  a  rung?"  the 
girl  asked,  not  comprehending. 

"If  I  hadn't  a-ketched  you  I'd  'a'  used  it  on 
the  converted  Turk,"  said  Robert  solemnly. 
"But  I've  ketched  you,  and  there's  somethin' 
I  wanted  to  say — somethin'  I'd  'a'  sayd  last 
night  if  it  hadn't  'a'  been  for  Tangerian.  I 
wanted  to  say " 

The  eyes  of  the  village  were  wide  open. 
Robert  saw  that. 

203 


SIX  STAKS 

"Mebbe,"  said  he,  "you  wouldn't  mind  driv- 
in'  up  the  road  a  piece  and  'round  the  bend. 
I'll  f oiler." 

Bare  is  woman's  intuition!  The  fat  horse 
jogged  around  the  bend,  but  so  heavy  was  his 
gait  that  when  he  halted  Eobert  was  leaning 
into  the  sleigh. 

"Last  night,  Viola  Kate,"  he  said,  "I'd  an 
idee  I'd  like  to  climb  the  ladder  of  suck-cess, 
but  it  seems  to  me  now  like  there  might  be  some 
comfortable  places  to  set  lower  down — if  you  Ve 
some  one  to  set  with  you." 

"There  might,"  the  girl  said. 

And  she  looked  away  over  the  glistening  fields. 
That  gave  him  heart,  for  he  knew  that  when  a 
woman  looked  you  in  the  eye  you  should  tremble. 

"Last  night,"  said  he,  "I  thought  I'd  like 
to  work  and  study  and  be  a  great  man  like 
Tangerian;  but  to-day  I'm  satisfied  to  go  on 
just  a  plain  Bachelor  of  Elements." 

"I  tho't  last  night  you'd  always  be  a  bach- 
elor," the  girl  said. 

"I  can't  help  that,"  said  he.  "Airy  Grove 
Normal  gave  me  that  degree;  but  I'll  be  a  mar- 
ried man,  too — if  you  don't  mind." 

204 


A  BACHELOR  OF  ELEMENTS 

"I  don't  mind,"  the  girl  said. 

Who  now  cares  for  success?  Eobert  does 
not.  Tangerian  is  forgotten.  The  river  of 
Time  can  flow  on.  The  ladder  can  reach  to 
heaven,  but  he  need  not  climb  it.  For  one  brief 
moment  he  knows  what  heaven  is.  Then  sud- 
denly he  straightens  up  and  looks  sharply 
around. 

" What's  the  matter?"  cries  the  girl. 

"I  thought  some  'un  might  be  looking"  he 
answers. 


205 


THE  MAN  WHO  STUDIED  CONTINUAL 

HE  spoke  from  a  pile  of  wheels  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  shop,  with  the  voice  of  au- 
thority that  became  the  wisest  man  in  all  the 
valley.  There  was  none  to  dispute  him.  The 
blacksmith  would  look  up  from  the  horse 's  hoof 
at  which  he  was  working  and  would  wag  his 
head  sagely,  and  when  the  weary  animal  showed 
signs  of  impatience  he  was  calmed  by  an  ad- 
monition gently  spoken.  At  the  bellows  the 
helper  stood,  so  softly  blowing  that  the  fire 
purred,  and  when  once  he  broke  the  story's 
thread  by  a  wild  ring  of  the  anvil  disapproving 
eyes  met  his  from  every  side,  and  he  tossed 
the  glowing  shoe  into  the  tub,  and,  turning  to 
the  forge,  made  a  feint  of  working,  but  listened. 

•  •  •  •  • 

If  you  observe  you  will  notice  that  them 
as  has  studied  and  knows  everything  allus  holds 
that  life  is  not  worth  living.  Only  those  folks 
is  happy  that  don't  know  any  better,  and  the 

206 


THE  MAN  WHO  STUDIED  CONTINUAL 

more  a  man  knows  the  more  unhappier  he  gets. 
Now,  I'm  not  against  studying.  I  have 
allus  been  a  student  and  hold  that  it  is  every 
man's  duty  to  know  all  he  can  in  this  world, 
as  there  is  no  telling  what  he  will  be  called 
on  to  do  in  the  next.  Still,  I  don't  know  every- 
thing, since  I  have  spent  so  much  time  fishing 
and  shooting,  and  I  can  say  truthful  that  I  have 
spells  of  peace  and  comfort  that  equals  the  hap- 
piness of  the  most  ignorantest.  The  most  un- 
happiest  man  I  ever  see  was  Peter  Pottipher, 
who  lived  in  the  mountains  back  of  Harmony. 
He  studied  continual  and  knowd  everything. 
There  wasn't  a  book  in  the  walley  he  hadn't 
read;  there  wasn't  a  hymn  he  couldn't  sing  by 
heart;  and  as  for  ketching  him,  he  simply 
never  was  ketched.  Yet  he  never  looked 
glad. 

Now,  I  mind  once  when  I  was  coming  home 
from  fishing  in  the  big  run,  I  see  the  old  man 
setting  on  the  front-stoop  of  his  house  medi- 
tating, and  I  stopped  in  to  pass  the  time  of  day. 
His  eyes  was  fixed  on  a  big  white  cloud  that  was 
floating  over  the  ridge ;  and  he  was  so  quiet  that 
the  smoke  hung  to  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  like 

207 


SIX  STARS 

cotton;  and  lie  was  so  busy  that  when  spoke  to 
he  made  no  answer.    So  I  shook  him. 

"Peter,"  says  I,  "what  are  you  figgering 
on  now?" 

He  pointed  to  the  sky  wery  solemn.  "You  see 
the  Injun's  head  at  the  fur  end  of  that  cloud," 
he  says.  "Well,  I'm  trying  to  study  out  how 
many  miles  it  is  from  where  I'm  setting  to  the 
p'int  of  the  nose." 

"That's  impossible,"  says  I,  laughing. 

"Mebbe,"  he  answers,  more  solemner  than 
ever.  "But  mind  this — one  end  of  that  cloud 
is  just  over  the  tall  pine  in  the  clearing  on  the 
ridge ;  the  other  is  even  with  the  lime-kiln,  and 
the  distance  between  them  two  p'ints  is  a  half 
mile,  and  from  here  to  the  lime-kiln  is  two 
mile.  Knowing  that,  it  had  ought  to  seem  like 
there  was  some  way  of  figgering  the  distance  to 
the  cloud  itself,  and  that's  what  I've  been  puz- 
zling over  for  an  hour.  It  won't  work  out,  so 
I  guess  it  is  impossible,  else  I'd  have  figgered 
it  by  this  tune." 

"Of  all  the  fool  things  to  worry  about,  that 
beats  them,"  says  I.  "S'pose  you  did  get  it, 
what  good  would  it  do  you?" 

208 


THE  MAN  WHO  STUDIED  CONTINUAL 

"Why,  I'd  know  how  fur  it  was,"  Peter  an- 
swers, rather  het  up. 

"But  the  cloud  won't  be  there  to-morrow," 
I  argues. 

"It  would  be  a  nice  thing  to  know  now,"  he 
says.  ' '  It  makes  me  mad  whenever  I  see  things 
like  that  what  I  can't  learn." 

"As  the  fellow  said,  knowledge  is  power,"  I 
ventured  to  remark. 

"Wind-power,"  said  the  old  man,  kind  of 
sad.  "That's  one  of  the  things  I  found  out 
while  I  was  acquiring  it.  Look  at  me — me  who 
has  studied  all  my  life  and  learned  'most  every- 
thing, getting  old  and  likely  to  die  'most  any 
time,  and  all  I'll  leave  behind  is  my  wife,  a 
clearing  and  grandpa's  rifle.  The  facts  I've 
got  together  won't  be  of  any  use  to  my  widder. 
Why,  if  I  started  to  give  'em  to  her  she  just 
wouldn't  listen." 

"You  mowt  write  'em  down  on  paper,  Peter," 
I  says. 

At  that  old  Pottipher  laughed  like  he  would 
die.  "Write  'em  down — the  idee !"  says  he  when 
he  could  speak  audible.  "Don't  you  under- 
stand that  if  I  tried  to  write  down  all  I  knowd 

209 


SIX  STARS 

I'd  have  to  live  over  a  hundred  year  to  finish 
up?" 

"Well,  since  it  won't  do  you  any  good,"  I 
asks,  "why  are  you  bothering  about  how  fur 
you  are  from  that  cloud  ? ' ' 

Peter  he  smoked  quiet  like  and  studied. 
Then  after  a  bit  he  says :  "Knowing  is  a  habit. 
If  a  man  has  brains,  the  more  he  puts  into  'em 
the  more  they  demands.  The  other  day  I  seen 
in  the  county  paper  the  figgers  telling  how  fur 
we  are  from  the  sun.  It  didn't  say  how  it  was 
found  out,  but  I  judge  it  took  a  heap  of  studying 
and  squinting  and  sighting  and  calculating. 
What  good  does  it  do  us  to  know  how  many 
miles  it  is  to  the  sun  if  we  ain't  intending  to 
walk  it?  Not  a  bit;  yet  it's  a  nice  thing  to 
know." 

"Which  goes  to  prove,"  says  I,  "that  knowl- 
edge is  a  luxury,  not  a  ne-cessity." 

"Exact,"  says  Peter. 

"So  the  most  ignorantest  man  can  get  rich 
in  dollars  while  the  most  smartest  is  gathering 
only  interesting  facts, ' '  says  I. 

"Pre-cise,"  says  Peter;  "you've  studied 
some  yourself." 

210 


THE  MAN  WHO  STUDIED  CONTINUAL 

"Some,"  I  answers,  "but  not  too  much,  as 
I  prefer  the  happy  mejum.  When  I  see  you 
figgering  over  clouds  I  am  more  concided  than 
ever  that  ignorance  is  bliss,  as  the  fellow  says. ' ' 

With  that  I  picked  up  my  string  of  trout  and 
left  him  setting  there  meditating. 

I  didn't  see  Peter  Pottipher  again  for  a  long 
time,  as  he  only  come  down  to  Harmony  to 
Sunday-school,  and  when  the  winter  set  in  the 
roads  got  very  bad  and  he  was  snowed  up. 
Once  I  did  see  him  after  that — just  once — in 
November,  when  we  run  a  fox  clean  over  the 
ridge  and  down  into  the  gut  and  up  the  moun- 
tain by  his  clearing.  He  heard  the  dogs  go 
through  his  patch  and  come  out.  So  I  stopped 
a  while  and  chatted  like. 

"Well,  Peter,"  I  asks,  "what  are  you  fig- 
gering on  now?" 

"A  most  interesting  problem,"  he  answers, 
brightening  up.  "Most  interesting.  Me  and 
old  Davy  Holler,  who  lives  a  mile  up  the  gut,  is 
calculating  how  fur  the  Israelites  travelled  in 
the  wilderness." 

"That  would  be  a  nice  thing  to  know," 
says  I. 

211 


SIX  STARS 

"And  the  beauty  of  it  is,"  says  Peter,  "it  is 
something  that  nobody  knows.  The  last  time  I 
was  down  to  Sunday-school,  before  the  bad 
weather  set  in,  Squire  Bellus  asked  our  class 
that  wery  question  and  nobody  knowd,  not  even 
the  squire  himself.  So  coming  home  me  and 
Davy  put  our  heads  together  and  agreed  we'd 
figger  it  out  during  the  winter." 

"Don't  the  Good  Book  tell  it?"  I  says.  "If 
I  mind  correct,  it  tells  the  number  of  cupids 
they  went  each  day,  and  multiplying  that  by 
forty  years  you  should  get  the  required 
result." 

'  '  Not  at  all, "  says  old  Pottipher .  < '  It  doesn  't 
give  it  in  either  miles  or  cupids.  We  thought 
it  would  be  easy,  too,  but  when  we  got  started 
we  soon  see  that  we  would  be  occupied  every 
night  all  winter,  for  if  you  look  up  you'll  find 
how  the  Good  Book  will  say  in  one  place  that 
they  went  on  a  three  days'  journey,  and  in  an- 
other how  they  come  unto  Elim;  so,  when  you 
don't  know  where  Elim  is,  it  is  certainly 
puzzling." 

"You  had  ought  to  have  a  map,"  I  ventures. 

"We  have,"  says  Peter.  "Davy  got  one  of 
212 


Asia,  but  it  don't  give  any  of  the  places  men- 
tioned, only  the  Ked  Sea." 

"Mebbe  this  map's  too  old,"  I  says,  just 
jokin'. 

"Mebbe,"  says  Peter,  he  being  the  most  in- 
nocentest  man  I  ever  see,  as  well  as  the  most 
knowing.  "It  certainly  do  look  it.  We  can 
hardly  read  the  print.  Davy  he  argues  that 
the  places  mentioned  in  the  Good  Book  might 
be  where  the  holes  is  in  the  map." 

"Probable,"  says  I,  "but,  such  being  the 
case,  how  in  the  name  of  common  sense  are  you 
working  it  out?" 

"It  is  difficult,"  says  the  old  man,  very  cheer- 
ful. "We  have  patience.  We're  making  a  map 
ourself,  and  we  will  get  at  it  gradual.  You  see 
Davy  he  reads  'They  went  three  days  into  the 
wilderness. '  Down  I  put  it,  making  a  line  three 
days  long.  'Then,'  says  Davy,  reading  on, 
'they  come  unto  Elim'.'  Another  line  is  hooked 
on,  only  I  mark  it  'to  Elim.'  So  there  we  will 
have  it  all  pictured,  and  to  get  the  result  we  only 
have  to  find  out  how  far  it  is  from  Elim  to  the 
next  p'int,  and  so  on,  and  add  it  all  up.  We  are 
getting  along  fine  with  it  and  I  allow  we'll 

213 


SIX  STABS 

give  the  squire  a  surprise  when  he  asks  that 
question  agin." 

"He'll  be  the  most  surprisedest  man  in  Har- 
mony, ' '  says  I,  never  hesitating. 

Just  then  the  dogs  come  running  back,  in  full 
cry,  and  I  grabbed  my  gun  and  made  for  the 
road,  and  up  the  hill,  to  ketch  a  shot  at  the  fox ; 
so  I  didn't  see  Peter  Pottipher  again.  I  never 
seen  him  again.  The  snow  fell  wery  heavy  next 
day,  and,  as  he  couldn't  come  down  to  town,  I 
forgot  all  about  him,  and  kept  on  in  my  own 
quiet,  ignorant  way  of  working  some  and  think- 
ing some  and  being  half  happy.  But  one  day 
in  May — I  think  it  was  May,  and  a  Sunday — I 
see  Davy  Holler  walking  down  the  street,  and, 
he  bringing  Peter  to  mind,  I  stepped  to  the  gate 
and  hailed  him.  Now,  Davy  Holler,  he  was  a 
wery  nice  old  man,  not  so  smart  as  Peter  Pot- 
tipher, and  therefore  much  richer,  but  also  con- 
siderable of  a  student.  If  he  was  a  student  we 
had  ought  to  speak  of  Peter  as  a  professor, 
for  I  never  seen  one  man  look  admiringer  at 
another  than  old  Holler  on  old  Pottipher,  and 
when  you  wanted  to  ask  the  one  about  the  other 
you  had  to  go  delicayte. 

214 


THE  MAN  WHO  STUDIED  CONTINUAL 

So  says  I,  pleasant-like,  "Well,  Davy,"  I 
says,  "how  fur  did  the  children  of  Israel  travel 
in  the  wilderness?" 

The  old  man  give  a  start  and  stared  at  me 
vacant — so  vacant  that  I  shouted  it  at  him,  and 
he  just  stood  there  scratching  his  chin  solemn. 
I  repeated  it  again.  Then  he  come  and  leaned 
on  the  gate,  and  borrowed  a  pipe  of  tobacco 
and  smoked  melancholy. 

"It  will  never  be  knowd,"  he  said  at  last, 
sighing. 

"All  your  winter's  work  gone  for  nothing," 
said  I,  sympathizing. 

"Absolute  nothing,"  he  answered,  still  mel- 
ancholier.  "I  don't  think  that  two  men  lives 
who  will  be  willing  to  put  in  the  work  me  and 
Peter  did  on  that  problem." 

"And  get  no  result,"  said  I. 

"But  it  can  be  figgered,"  said  he.  "If  any- 
buddy  wants  to  try  it,  I  will  loan  'em  our  map." 

With  that  Davy  pulled  out  a  big  piece  of 
wrapping  paper  and  hung  it  on  the  fence.  I 
must  admit  it  was  the  most  remarkable  hand- 
drawing  I  ever  see. 

"That  spot  is  the  Red  Sea,"  says  he,  p'inting 
215 


SIX  STARS 

.with  his  walking-stick.    ' '  That  line  shooting  off 
shows  the  first  movement ! ' ' 

I  put  on  my  spectacles  and  getting  close  down, 
made  out  in  old  Peter's  handwrite :  "3  days — 
Marah."  The  line  come  zigzagging  back,  and 
over  it  was  wrote,  "Marah  to  Elim." 

"See  here,  Davy,"  I  says,  "you  don't  mean 
to  tell  me  them  Israelites  started  right  back  to 
the  Red  Sea?" 

The  old  man  laughed  superior-like.  "Not 
at  all,"  he  answers,  wery  grand.  "This  ain't 
that  kind  of  a  map.  You  mind  how  the  line 
zigzags  all  the  way  down  to  the  bottom  of  the 
wrapping  paper,  and  besides  there  is  more  on 
the  other  side.  It  was  a  monstrous  amount  of 
work,  for  each  of  them  lines  means  a  journey- 
sometimes  it's  three  days — again  it's  four — or 
mebbe  it  just  says  from  Dan  to  Beersheeby. ' ' 

"A  mighty  queer  way  to  Canaan,"  says  I, 
not  altogether  understanding. 

"YouVe  never  been  a  student,"  says  Davy, 
ruther  uppish.  "Can't  you  see  what  it  means? 
We  finished  the  map,  and  now  all  that  remains 
to  be  done  is  to  find  out  how  many  miles  there 
is  in  each  of  them  zigzag  lines,  and,  adding  'em 

216 


THE  MAN  WHO  STUDIED  CONTINUAL 

we'll  get  the  entire  distance  travelled  by  the 
children  of  Israel." 

"What's  the  result?"  I  asks. 

"It  will  never  be  knowd,"  says  Davy,  wery 
solemn.  "Peter  he  could  'a'  worked  it  out,  but 
it's  beyond  me.  Peter  he  was  a  wonderful 
man. ' ' 

Peter  Pottipher  was  a  wonderful  man !  Them 
mountains  may  hold  more  like  him,  but  not 
many.  I  had  thought  I  knowd  Peter,  but  when 
Davy  Holler  set  down  on  my  porch  and  told  me 
about  the  winter's  figgering  and  the  final  result, 
I  see  that  I  had  never  more  than  half  an  idee  of 
him,  after  all.  Nothing  stopped  him  when  he 
wanted  facts.  Night  after  night  he  and  Davy 
worked  by  candle-light  with  the  Good  Book 
and  the  map.  Sometimes  it  was  hard  and  con- 
fusing, for  they  would  find  the  children  in  one 
place  without  nothing  being  explained  definite 
about  how  they  got  there.  They  'd  make  guesses 
whether  it  was  a  three  days '  journey  or  a  seven, 
and  Davy  he  would  get  discouraged,  but  old 
Peter  he  explained  how  it  was  bound  to  come 
out  all  right,  for,  while  they  was  likely  to  guess 
too  much  once,  the  next  time  they  would  likely 

217 


SIX  STARS 

guess  too  little,  and  even  up.  Nothing  ever 
scared  Peter  Pottipher.  They  kept  right  at  it 
till  one  night  in  April,  when  the  snow  was  all 
gone,  and  Peter's  wife  was  setting  by  the  fire 
untangling  fishing  lines,  and  Peter  and  Davy 
was  working  by  the  candle.  Then  Peter  closed 
the  Good  Book  wery  gentle,  and  says,  p'inting 
to  the  map:  "Davy,  that  spot  is  the  River 
Jordan.  We  have  figgered  it  all  out,  and  as 
soon  as  we  add  up,  something  will  be  knowd 
that  was  never  knowd  before." 

"Well,  begin  adding,"  says  Davy,  most  in- 
nocent. 

That  made  Peter  laugh  hearty.  "Don't  you 
know,  Davy,"  says  he,  "we  can't  add  'three 
days'  journey'  to  the  line  marked  'Marah  to 
Elim't" 

"Have  we  worked  all  winter  for  nothing!" 
cries  Davy,  indignant. 

"Not  at  all,"  says  Peter,  in  his  calm  way. 
"We  must  first  reduce  to  miles." 

That  sounded  easy,  but  for  four  days  Peter 
Pottipher  and  Davy  Holler  was  puzzled  com- 
plete. Davy  he  was  ready  to  give  up,  but 
Peter  wasn't  that  kind.  "Never,"  says  he. 

218 


He  and  Davy   worked  by   candle-light  with  the  Good  Book 
and  the  map. 


THE  MAN  WHO  STUDIED  CONTINUAL 

"Let  me  study."  And  study  lie  did,  setting  on 
the  wood-pile  and  watching  the  clouds  till  the 
fifth  day,  when  he  arose  with  a  smile  and  walked 
up  the  gut  to  Holler's  clearing. 

"I  have  it,"  says  he,  triumphant.  "We  will 
make  a  three  days'  journey  to  find  out  how  long 
the  first  line  is." 

Davy's  eyes  opened  wide.  He  almost  cried. 
"Do  we  have  to  wander  in  the  mountains  for 
a  seven-day  spell,  too,  and  a  forty  and  such?" 
says  he.  "Do  we  have  to  do  everything  them 
lines  says  to  get  the  answer?" 

"Not  at  all,"  says  Peter,  most  condescend- 
ing. "You  are  a  fine  fellow,  Davy,  but  not 
much  of  a  student.  See  here — we  will  journey 
for  three  days,  and  dividing  the  result  by  three 
gives  how  fur  the  Israelites  could  go  in  one 
day;  so,  by  multiplying,  we  can  fill  in  all  the 
lines  where  the  Good  Book  gives  the  number  of 
days  travel." 

"But  how  about  them  marked  'Marah  to 
Elim,'  and  'Dan  to  Beersheeby'?"  inquires 
Davy,  a  little  het  up. 

"One  thing  at  a  time  and  that  well,"  Peter 
answers,  quiet  but  determined.  "That's  a 

219 


SIX  STARS 

bridge  I'll  cross  when  I  come  to  it.  I've  stud- 
ied this  out,  and  I  allow  I  can  study  that  out 
too.  To-morrow  at  sun-up  you'll  see  me 
here." 

Davy  Holler  was  terrible  put  out.  He  said 
he  was  getting  too  old  for  a  three  days'  tramp. 
It  wasn't  any  use  to  argue  with  Peter  Potti- 
pher.  He  allowed  he  was  five  year  older,  and 
if  he  could  stand  a  three  days'  journey  Davy 
could.  There  was  one  thing  to  do,  and  that 
ended  it. 

"You  must  bring  your  blind  mule,  David," 
says  he,  in  a  commanding  way.  '  *  The  children 
of  Israel  travelled  with  camels,  so  we've  got 
to  allow  for  that,  and  not  move  too  fast.  I 
figger  from  the  pickters  I've  seen  of  them 
humpy  animals  they  could  go  at  just  about  the 
same  gait  as  your  old  Jimmy." 

Pleading,  complaining,  threatening  —  they 
was  all  of  no  account.  Peter  Pottipher  was 
after  knowledge,  and  nothing  would  turn  him. 
He  paid  no  attention. 

"At  sun-up  we  start,  David,"  says  he. 

With  that  he  went  down  the  road  towards 
home. 

220 


THE  MAN  WHO  STUDIED  CONTINUAL 

As  I  have  said,  there  never  was  a  man  who 
looked  admiringer  on  another  than  Davy  Holler 
did  on  Peter  Pottipher,  and,  though  he  wasn't 
wery  pleased  at  setting  off  on  a  long  journey  at 
his  age,  he  trusted  Peter  implicit,  and  he  didn't 
want  to  see  his  old  friend  going  away  alone, 
when  go  he  would  if  there  was  any  knowledge 
to  be  got.  So  he  was  out  at  sun-up  as  ordered 
and  ready,  with  the  blind  mule  leadened  with 
a  bag  of  bread  and  pork.  Peter  was  on  hand 
to  the  minute.  After  taking  the  time  most  care- 
ful, the  two  of  'em  turned  to  the  wilderness,  as 
the  Good  Book  would  say,  journeying  even  unto 
Snyder  County.  At  sunset  on  the  third  day 
they  found  themselves  on  a  rocky  road  at  the 
top  of  the  fifth  mountain,  both  of  'em  wore  out 
complete.  Davy,  though  the  youngest,  was  the 
most  beat,  and  set  down  on  a  stump  and  lighted 
his  pipe,  and  rubbed  his  shins,  and  groaned. 
Peter  must  have  been  as  tired,  but  he  was  fuller 
of  grit,  and  limped  around  till  he  found  some 
pasture  for  the  mule,  then  lit  the  fire  and 
started  some  supper  frying. 

" Cheer  up,  Davy,"  he  says  real  cheerful 
when  the  things  was  sizzling  in  the  pan.  * '  Cheer 

221 


SIX  STAES 

up.  Our  three  days'  journey  has  ended,  and 
now  we  can  go  back  home  and  figger. ' ' 

"How  fur  have  we  come?"  says  Davy,  ruther 
grumpy. 

Peter  he  rose  up  and  looked  around  wery 
solemn.  There  was  five  mountains  between  him 
and  home  and  one  between  him  and  Snyder 
County — not  a  house  or  a  living  thing  in 
sight. 

"Mighty  souls!"  he  says. 

"How  fur  is  it?"  says  Davy  again,  smoking 
continual. 

"We  will  have  to  ask  some  un,"  Peter  an- 
swers, somewhat  meeker. 

"Who'll  you  ask?"  says  Davy,  getting  an- 
grier. 

"Can't  you  let  me  study  a  while?"  Peter 
says,  wery  gentle,  bringing  over  a  pan  of  sup- 
per. "You  eat  good,  Davy,  and  lay  down  and 
sleep  like  and  I'll  calculate." 

There  was  some  rumbling  and  growling,  and 
then  Davy  Holler  done  what  he  was  told,  for 
he  was  too  tired  to  complain  wery  much.  Even 
if  he  was  put  out  at  Peter,  he  really  trusted  him 
implicit j  so  it  wasn't  long  till  he  had  forgot 

222 


THE  MAN  WHO  STUDIED  CONTINUAL 

all  about  the  children  of  Israel  and  their  jour- 
neying. At  sunrise  he  awoke — alone.  The  mule 
was  there  still,  browsing  'round,  but  Peter 
was  gone.  He  called,  but  there  was  no  sign ;  so 
he  set  down  and  waited,  knowing  that  a  man 
of  such  uncommon  learning  had  not  disappeared 
for  nothing.  Till  noon  he  set,  smoking  and  med- 
itating and  whittling,  and  final  he  hear  foot- 
steps coming  up  the  mountain.  A  call  brought 
no  answer,  and,  being  too  tired  to  get  up,  he 
just  kind  of  stretched  his  neck  and  set  listening 
and  watching.  Feebler  and  feebler  the  foot- 
steps sounded — then  a  loud  breathing.  Peter 
come — Peter  looking  nearer  ninety-five  than 
eighty — Peter  puffing  wery  hard — Peter  all 
white  and  haggard  like.  He  didn't  say  noth- 
ing— just  set  down  and  gasped. 

"Well,"  says  Davy,  "how  fur  did  we  come 
in  three  days?" 

"Twenty-one    mile,"    says    the    old    man, 
brightening  up,  kind  of  sad. 

For  a  minute   Davy  worked  his  lips   and 
fingers. 

"Showing  we  could  do  seven  mile  a  day,"  he 
says. 

223 


SIX  STAES 

Peter  nodded. 

"How  did  you  study  it  out?"  says  Davy. 

Peter  would  have  blushed,  only  he  was  so 
old  and  yellow,  but  he  was  truthful,  and  con- 
fessed. 

1  'Yonder  is  Airy  Grove,"  he  says,  p'inting 
to  the  last  mountain.  "I  went  over  in  the 
night  and  asked.  It's  twenty-nine  mile  by  the 
road  from  there  to  Harmony,  and  five  mile 
from  here  to  there,  and  three  mile  from  Har- 
mony to  your  clearing.  The  gentleman  in  the 
store  figgered  out  early  this  morning  for  me. 
It's  twenty-one  mile." 

"You're  a  wonderful  student,  Peter,"  Davy 
says. 

The  old  man  kind  of  smiled  his  thanks  and 
leaned  back  against  a  tree.  In  a  minute  he  too 
had  forgot  about  the  children  of  Israel.  Davy 
set  still  for  a  wery  long  time,  watching  him  and 
smoking  and  meditating.  By  and  by  an  idee 
come  to  him,  and  he  begin  working  his  lips  and 
fingers.  Then  he  peeked  at  Peter,  sleeping 
gentle  like  and  at  the  sun,  still  high  up  over  the 
mountain. 

"Peter,"  he  says. 

224 


THE  MAN  WHO  STUDIED  CONTINUAL 

Peter  made  no  sign,  so  he  got  up  onrastless, 
and  begin  to  walk  up  and  down,  nervous  like, 
watching  the  afternoon  go  by,  till  he  couldn't 
stand  it  no  more. ' ' 

' '  Peter, ' '  he  says,  shaking  him.  The  old  man 
opened  his  eyes  and  woke  up.  "Peter,"  Davy 
went  on,  "I've  been  studying,  and  I  can't  make 
out  why  we  couldn't  have  figgered  how  fur  the 
Israelites  travelled  by  walking  one  day  and 
multiplying  the  result,  just  as  well  as  by  walk- 
ing three  and  dividing." 

Peter  only  smiled  weary  like  and  closed  his 
eyes,  so  Davy  didn't  bother  him  no  more  till 
the  sun  was  well  down  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain. 

' '  See  here, ' '  he  says,  shaking  the  sleeper  wery 
hard,  "I've  been  studying,  Peter,  and  I  make 
out  that  again  we  get  home  we  will  have  jour- 
neyed six  days  instead  of  three. ' ' 

But  Peter  never  opened  his  eyes.  Davy 
Holler  shook  him  harder,  but  he  couldn't  wake 
him  up. 

"He  just  kind  of  slep*  away,  tired  out  with 
studying  and  walking,"  Davy  says  that  Sunday 
morning  as  we  set  on  my  porch  and  he  told 

225 


SIX  STARS 

about  it.  "Peter  was  a  wonderful  man  for 
facts,"  he  says,  p'inting  to  the  map,  "and  had 
he  been  spared  we  might  have  studied  it  out." 

"He  was  a  wonderful  man,"  says  I,  unhesi- 
tating. "He  took  all  his  facts  with  him  and 
left  nothing  behind. " 

"Only  his  clearing,"  Davy  says,  "and  his 
widder  and  his  grandpa's  rifle." 


226 


MUSIC  HATH  CHAEMS 

HE  spoke  from  the  counter  one  rainy  after- 
noon, as  he  lay  stretched  out  lazily,  with 
his  back  against  a  pile  of  calico  rolls.  The  store 
half  feared  him,  for  a  hundred  combats  of 
wits  had  taught  it  not  to  cross  this  man,  who 
had  been  everywhere  and  seen  everything, 
and  knew  the  world  as  others  knew  the  village 
and  the  valley.  And  when  he  leaned  back  this 
way,  and  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and 
looked  searchingly  into  the  dark  recesses  of 
the  ceiling,  the  store  saw  that  he  was  delving 
around  the  great  treasure-house  of  his  mind, 
and  that,  were  it  silent,  it  could  partake  of  the 
richness  of  his  experience.  So  it  smoked  in 

silence  and  listened. 

•  ••••« 

Music  hath  charms  to  soothe  the  savage 
beast.  I  think  you'll  either  find  that  in  the 
Good  Book  or  the  almanac,  both  of  which  is 
full  of  wisdom  and  too  little  read  and  heeded. 

227 


SIX  STABS 

Of  course  it  don't  apply  to  bands — anybody 
knows  that  who  has  tried  to  drive  a  colt  through 
Harmony  when  the  boys  was  out  marching,  but 
it  do  apply  particular  to  the  melodium.  Now, 
of  all  musical  instruments  the  melodium  is  the 
loveliest  and  most  affecting,  besides  being  the 
difficultest  to  play,  as  it  requires  the  rapid  op- 
eration of  both  the  hands  and  feet.  I  have 
knowd  melodium  players  as  could  sing  at  the 
same  time,  but  they  are  scarce,  mighty  scarce— 
and  it  takes  years  of  study  to  get  the  hang  of 
it.  The  pi-anno  is  a  nice  instrument,  but  it 
hasn't  the  fine  tone  of  the  melodium;  it's  too 
full  of  twiddles  and  pilly- winks;  and  the  keys 
stick  in  wet  weather,  and  the  strings  bust, 
which  is  apt  to  leave  vacant  spots  in  the  tunes. 
I  know  it's  easier  to  play,  as  it  requires  only 
the  hands,  but  for  all-around  work,  from  quiet, 
touching,  feeling  pieces  to  the  regular  rip-roar- 
ing old  jig,  give  me  the  melodium  every  time. 

Clara  Wheedle  was  the  nicest  melodium 
player  I  ever  hear.  She  was  the  musicalest 
girl  I  ever  knowd,  too,  and  the  most  artistic, 
though  there  was  no  need  of  it,  for  she  was 
good  looking,  just  as  pretty  as  a  pickter,  with 

228 


MUSIC  HATH  CHARMS 

gold  hair  and  Greekan  features  and  dreamy, 
distant  eyes  that  allus  seemed  to  be  looking 
into  the  beyond.  Now,  most  of  the  girls  in 
Harmony,  when  I  was  there,  was  either  very 
fleshy  or  very  spare,  and  when  a  beautiful  young 
thing  like  Clara,  with  an  elegant  figger  and  a 
voice  like  a  bell,  and  a  soft  sigh  like  the  wind 
in  the  trees  in  June,  and  an  artistic  smile,  and 
a  whole  handful  of  diamond  rings — when  a 
dream  like  that  come  from  Snyder  County  and 
settled  in  our  midst,  there  wasn't  an  unmar- 
ried heart  in  town  that  didn't  beat  high  with 
hope.  She  was  the  first  artistic  girl  we  had 
ever  see,  and  she  certainly  was  polished,  hav- 
ing had  the  advantage  of  living  in  an  educated 
center — Airy  Grove,  where  she  had  taken  a 
three  months'  course  in  the  Musical  Cemetary. 

If  I  mind  right,  Clara  Wheedle  arrived  in 
Harmony  about  corn-planting  time,  and,  after 
a  day  at  the  National  Hotel,  moved  over  to 
board  at  old  Mrs.  Dumple's.  The  first  I  hear 
of  her  was  when,  on  Saturday  evening,  I  hap- 
pened to  see  pasted  on  the  store  window  a  notice 
in  a  strange  handwrite,  which  announced  that 
Miss  Clara  Wheedle  had  arrived  at  Mrs.  Dum- 

229 


SIX  STABS 

pie's  and  would  give  lessons,  vocal,  melodium, 
pi-anno,  or  brass  and  sight  reading,  for  fifty 
cents  apiece.  Further,  it  stated  that  she  had 
gradeated  at  the  Airy  Grove  Cemetary  with 
honors;  had  been  organist  at  the  Methodist 
Church  at  Pummelswille,  Pa.;  Professor  of 
Music  at  the  Barktown  Soldiers'  Orphan 
School,  besides  having  organized  numerous 
cantatas  and  singing  societies.  With  a  history 
like  that  behind  her,  I  had  expected  naturally 
to  see  a  regular  dried-up  music  teacher.  Not 
at  all.  She  bursted  on  me  at  church  next  morn- 
ing, a  vision  of  loveliness  as  she  set  at  the  melo- 
dium playing,  and  from  that  minute  my  whole 
plan  of  life  seemed  changed.  You  had  otter 
seen  Clara  Wheedle  as  she  led  the  anthem,  play- 
ing the  melodium  and  singing  at  the  same  time, 
all  the  while  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ceiling  like 
she  was  being  carried  away  by  the  beauty  of 
it.  She  was  a  perfect  painting,  and  it  struck 
me  all  in  a  heap,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal, 
as  I  had  allus  been  most  popular  with  the  fair 
sect,  and  had  refused  about  every  girl  in  town. 
I  can  say  honest  that  Clara  Wheedle  was  the 
only  girl  I  ever  loved,  though  I've  since  mar- 

230 


MUSIC  HATH  CHAEMS 

ried.  No  man  ever  loves  more  than  oncet,  for 
love  is  like  the  mumps,  oncet  youVe  had  it  you 
don't  get  it  again.  The  symptoms  is  loss  of 
sleep  and  appetite,  a  stuffy  feeling  in  the  chest 
and  thoughts  of  suicide  when  you  see  Her  mak- 
ing eyes  at  the  other  fellow.  If  you  marry  Her 
you  recover,  and  affection  takes  its  place,  the 
appetite  comes  back,  you  smoke  like  a  chim- 
bley  and  look  forward  with  dread  to  dying — 
perhaps.  If  you  don't  marry  Her,  you  get 
over  it  just  the  same,  and  you  never  really  love 
again.  The  next  time  you  meet  a  lady  you  may 
concide  that  you  are  suited  to  each  other,  but 
you  won't  suffer  the  way  you  done  at  first,  be- 
cause you  know  better.  So  when  I  seen  Clara 
Wheedle  leading  that  anthem — I  think  it  was 
"Bringing  in  the  Sheaves" — I  said  to  myself 
that  here  was  the  girl  for  me,  life  without  her 
would  not  be  worth  living,  and  if  she  would  not 
have  me  I  would  end  all.  The  very  next  day  I 
agreed  to  take  ten  lessons  on  the  melodium. 

The  really  happiest  hour  I  ever  had  in  all  my 
life  was  that  first  lesson,  when  we  set  side  by 
side  in  the  Dumpies'  parlor,  my  eyes  glued  to 
them  ivory  keys,  my  fingers  getting  all  tangled 

231 


SIX  STARS 

up  and  ontwisted,  and  she  waving  her  pencil 
and  saying,  '  *  Now — one — two — three — one- 
two — three — one — two — three. ' '  Sometimes  I  'd 
try  to  stop,  and  look  at  her  kind  of  languish- 
ing, and  rub  my  knuckles  and  make  a  remark 
about  the  weather,  but  she  was  all  business,  and 
would  shut  me  right  off  with  that  infernal, 
1 '  Now — one — two — three — one — two  —  three  — 
one — two — three  —  one  —  two  —  three. ' '  And 
when  we  finished,  and  I  was  inclined  to  set 
around  a  while,  she  says,  opening  the  door  very 
bland,  ''That  will  do  to-day.  To-morrow  at 
eleven."  So  I  went  out  in  kind  of  a  daze — so 
dazed  that  it  did  not  strike  me  as  peculiar  when 
I  see  old  Erastus  Melon,  a  tri-widower,  in  the 
hall  hugging  a  bass-horn,  waiting  his  turn. 

A  while  later,  in  a  chair  on  my  porch,  in  the 
sun,  thinking  of  her,  I  could  hear  the  boom — 
boom — boom  of  Erastus  Melon's  bass-horn, 
and  it  kind  of  kept  pounding  it  into  my  head 
that  it  was  queer  that  a  fellow  like  him  whose 
whole  life  had  been  spent  on  the  store  porch 
should  suddenly  begin  to  develop  such  like  ar- 
tistic tastes.  But  I  set  it  down  that  he  wanted 
to  join  the  band  on  account  of  the  uniform,  and 

232 


MUSIC  HATH  CHARMS 

I  tried  to  forget  the  noise  and  give  myself  up 
to  thoughts  of  Her,  of  the  time  when  she  was 
to  be  mine,  and  I  was  to  lean  back  in  the  rocker 
and  close  my  eyes  and  listen  while  she  played 
sentimental  pieces  on  the  melodium  and  cornet. 
The  booming  stopped  so  sudden  after  I'd  got 
used  to  it  that  I  woke  up,  to  see  Os sy  Dinkle 
hurrying  up  the  street  like  he  was  late,  carrying 
under  his  arm  a  brand-new  guitar.  Lily  Looney, 
who  had  been  keeping  company  with  him  for 
about  three  years,  see  him,  and  run  out  of  their 
house,  calling  to  him;  but  he  just  waved  her 
aside  and  hurried  on ;  and  a  few  minutes  later, 
through  the  Dumpies'  window,  come  a  turn — 
turn — turn — tumpety — turn — turn  that  set  me 
thinking. 

The  guitar  is  purely  a  sentimental  instru- 
ment. I  never  hear  a  married  man  play  one, 
and  I  knowd  well  enough  that  a  fellow  who 
was  naturally  so  lazy  as  Ossy  Dinkle  wasn't 
going  to  tire  his  fingers  just  for  the  love  of 
music.  Ossy  had  in  his  soul  about  as  much  art 
as  a  guinea-hen,  and,  though  he  belonged  to 
the  band,  he  had  never  rose  above  the  bass- 
drum,  so  it  didn't  take  much  figgering  on  my 

233 


SIX  STAKS 

part  to  see  how  as  he  was  playing  the  same 
game  as  me  and  old  Erastus  Melon.  But  I 
didn't  worry.  Of  them  two  I  had  nothing  to 
be  afraid,  for  not  only  was  it  generally  ad- 
mitted that  I  was  the  handsomest  man  in  Har- 
mony, but,  besides,  I  was  the  tastiest  dresser, 
and  then  mother  had  a  pension.  But  young 
Oriole  Jackson  was  richer  than  me,  and  J. 
Thomas  Wackle  had  a  normal  school  education, 
and  Llewellyn  Lilly  a  heavenly  disposition. 
When  I  see  them,  one  after  another,  go  into 
Dumpies',  one  with  a  cornet,  another  with  a 
fiddle,  and  the  last  with  just  his  voice  and  a 
roll  of  music,  I  begin  to  worry.  Truly,  com- 
petition is  the  life  of  love.  The  worse  the  com- 
petition got,  the  worse  I  got,  the  less  I  e't,  the 
less  I  slept  and  smoked,  and  the  stuffier  I  felt 
in  the  chest.  And  as  I  suffered  so  suffered  the 
whole  town  of  Harmony,  excepting  the  weemen 
and  the  old  men. 

You  have  no  idea  of  the  influence  of  a  be- 
yutiful  woman.  The  place  was  changed.  The 
store  was  deserted,  and  on  Sundays  the  church 
was  so  crowded  that  it  seemed  like  the  meeting 
was  specially  for  men,  which  the  Reverent 

234 


Spiegelnail  laid  entirely  to  his  preaching,  so 
he  made  his  sermons  a  half  hour  longer  in  re- 
sponse to  what  he  believed  the  popular  demand. 
But  church  was  worth  it,  in  spite  of  them  ser- 
mons. Miss  Wheedle  had  put  her  eight  sing- 
ing pupils  in  the  choir,  besides  having  two 
female  voices,  and  the  way  the  men  sung  an- 
thems was  a  pleasure  to  see.  She  would  lead 
'em,  setting  at  the  melodium,  her  fingers  feath- 
ering over  the  keys,  the  diamonds  flashing,  her 
face  upturned  like,  her  eyes  gazing  into  the  be- 
yond, she  singing  like  a  nightingale,  the  choir 
follering  after  and  in  the  back  of  the  church 
three  whole  pews  full  of  young  men  joining 
in.  The  preacher  declared  it  the  greatest  re- 
vival of  religious  interest  that  Harmony  ever 
see. 

It  had  been  that  in  the  evenings  the  boys  was 
mostly  around  the  square,  setting  in  the  store 
porch,  or  pitching  quoits,  or  playing  sock-ball. 
But  after  the  artistic  movement  struck  the  place 
the  square  was  as  quiet  as  a  graveyard.  And 
if  after  supper  you  took  a  walk  through  town, 
you'd  hear,  coming  out  of  Melons'  parlor,  the 
boom-boom  of  the  bass-horn,  as  Erastus  blowed 

235 


SIX  STABS 

sentimental  pieces;  you'd  go  on  by  Dinkles' 
and  see  Ossy  on  the  porch,  twanging  "Tell  Me, 
Darling,"  out  of  his  guitar;  you'd  come  to 
Jackson's  and  find  Oriole  on  the  pump-trough, 
tenderly  breathing  "Annie  Laurie"  through  his 
cornet;  while  next  door  J.  Thomas  Wackle's 
fiddle  was  whining  the  feeling  strains  of  "Lit- 
tle Nellie  Gray,  They  Have  Taken  Her  Away," 
and  further  down  the  street  Lewellyn  Lilly  was 
do-ra-me-sofalalling  like  a  dog  at  the  moon. 
And  they  wasn't  the  only  ones.  As  I  said,  the 
whole  male  sect  of  the  place  was  music-mad, 
while  the  women  generally  was  of  the  opinion 
that  that  Wheedle  girl  was  the  plainest  thing, 
with  the  poorest  voice  and  the  big-feelingest, 
conceitedest  ways  they  ever  see. 

Of  course  such  like  conditions  could  not  keep 
up  forever,  and  when  the  gentle  sect  began  to 
make  things  most  unpleasant  around  a  hun- 
dred homes,  there  was  a  general  rush  to  cap- 
ture the  cause  of  all  the  trouble.  I  was  about 
the  first  to  try  to  end  it.  I  had  pined  away  to 
one  hundred  and  thirty  pounds,  and  had  wore 
my  fingers  down  considerable  playing  the  melo- 
dium,  and  mother  had  become  most  uncommon 

236 


MUSIC  HATH  CHARMS 

het  up.  So  one  day  at  my  lesson  I  stopped 
plum  in  the  middle  of  a  bar,  turned  square 
around  and  told  Clara  Wheedle.  You  never 
see  a  sweeter  smile  than  she  give  me. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  says.  "But  you  know 
I  am  wedded  to  my  art.  But  let  it  make  no 
difference.  I  shall  be  a  teacher  to  you  just  the 
same.  Now,  one — two — three — one — two — 
three — one — two — three. ' ' 

My  music  went  out  of  the  window  and  I  went 
out  of  the  door.  But  after  I'd  taken  a  look  at 
the  milldam,  I  concluded  I  had  been  too  hasty, 
and  that  faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady,  and  all 
that;  so  next  day  I  was  back  again  at  the 
melodium  with  her  a-counting  serenely  over  my, 
shoulder. 

Of  course  I  kept  quiet  about  it  all,  but  I  see 
by  old  Erastus  Melon's  face,  and  Ossy  Dinkle's 
week  in  the  mountains,  and  J.  Thomas  Wackle's 
swearing  how  wedded  she  was  to  her  art.  But 
it  did  seem  like  the  more  wedded  she  was  the 
more  artistic  we  all  become  and  the  more  deter- 
mineder  to  be  worthy  of  her.  We  was  getting 
to  a  high  state  of  perfection  when  there  come 
one  day  to  the  National  Hotel  the  homeliest 

237 


SIX  STARS 

man  I  ever  see.  He  called  himself  Jake 
O'Brien,  the  boy  John  L.  Sullivan,  for,  though 
he  was  only  twenty-seven  years  old,  he  was 
champeen  feather-weight  of  Snyder  County. 
Such  a  face  I  never  hope  to  look  upon  again. 
It  all  seemed  to  have  been  turned  around,  and 
when  he  smiled  at  you  pleasant-like  you'd  run 
for  your  gun.  He  had  come  down  for  a  few 
weeks'  quiet  training  for  a  match  with  the 
Young  "Whirlwind  of  Perry  County,  and  had  a 
gentleman-friend  with  him  to  take  away  his  see- 
gars  when  he  lighted  them,  and  keep  his  flask 
empty,  and  rub  him  down  every  day  after  he 
had  run  twenty-five  miles  in  the  boiling  sun. 
Then  the  two  of  'em  would  stroll  up  and  down 
the  street  like  they  owned  the  town. 

But  the  town  was  against  them.  The  artistic 
movement  in  Harmony  was  at  its  height,  and 
it  wasn't  considered  good  taste  to  speak  to 
such  brutal  creatures,  excepting  for  small  boys, 
and  even  the  colored  cook  in  the  hotel  objected 
to  eating  at  the  same  table  with  them. 

But  you  can't  tell  about  weemen.  I  know 
about  as  much  about  them  as  anybody  living, 
and  I  long  ago  concided  that  their  brains  was 

238 


MUSIC  HATH  CHARMS 

worked  by  the  winds.  You'd  think  a  beautiful 
woman  would  want  a  handsome  husband;  but 
if  you  notice,  you'll  observe  that  handsome  men 
allus  marries  plain  weemen — my  wife  was  plain. 
I  did  not  realize  it  in  them  days  in  Harmony, 
though.  So  one  afternoon  old  Erastus  Melon 
come  flying  out  the  Dumpies'  front  door  and 
landed  in  the  flower-bed,  and  when  I  see  his 
bass-horn  land  on  top  of  him  I  slicked  up  my 
hair  and  put  on  a  tie  and  says:  "Now  is  my 
time.  The  contrast  will  do  it. ' ' 

So,  proud  and  hopeful,  I  stepped  across  the 
road  and  up  on  the  porch.  Then  I  hear  sounds 
in  the  parlor,  and  I  stopped  a  minute  to  listen. 

"Clara,"  came  in  a  woice  that  sounded  like  it 
had  been  filed,  "Clara,  I  have  swore  for  your 
sake  to  knock  the  stuffin'  outen  that  whirlwind 
fakir.  I  have  swore  it,  Clara." 

"  Oh !  my  hero ! ' '  says  she,  in  her  bell-likest, 
languishingest  tones,  "my  hero,  how  I  wish  I 
could  witness  your  victory!" 

Mad!  I  was  that  het  up  I  lost  my  senses, 
and  didn't  have  no  fear.  I  stuck  my  head  in 
the  window  and  glared  right  at  them  as  they 
set  there  on  the  piano-stool,  the  two  of  'em. 

239 


SIX  STARS 

"Well,  Clara  Wheedle,"  I  says,  "if  that's 
what  you  call  the  art  you're  wedded  to,  I'll  give 
up  music. ' ' 

Then  I  run.  I  didn't  stop  till  I  got  well  out 
of  town,  and  I  didn't  go  home  till  after  dark. 
But  I  never  played  the  melodium  no  more,  beau- 
tiful instru-ment  though  it  be. 


240 


THE  MOST  DETEBMINEDEST  MAN 

HE  was  sitting  on  the  anvil  in  the  black- 
smith-shop, his  fish-pole  resting  at  his 
side,   his   eyes   contemplating   a   single   trout 
hanging  dejectedly  on  the  hickory  twig  that  he 

held  in  his  hand. 

•  »••»•» 

To  fish  proper  you  must  be  determined.  Now, 
I  never  was  determined.  Had  I  been,  you  can 
bet  that  I'd  had  more  success  in  this  life.  But  I 
live  just  the  same  as  I  fish,  going  forth  in  the 
morning  with  a  rod  and  a  can  of  worms,  my  mind 
made  up  that  I  won't  come  home  till  I've  got  a 
whole  string.  My  determination  kind  of  lasts 
for  just  one  trout,  and  then,  if  they  ain't  biting 
good,  I  get  discouraged  and  give  it  up.  It  must 
be  because  I'm  intellectual.  Now,  I've  studied 
a  heap  in  this  world,  but  I've  never  done  noth- 
ing, being  a  student.  I've  been  'most  every- 
where and  seen  'most  everything,  and  come  in 
contack  with  all  kinds,  classes  and  conditions 

241 


SIX  STARS 

of  people,  and  I've  noticed  that,  with  only  a 
few  exceptions,  intellectuality  and  worldly 
prosperity  never  goes  hand  in  hand.  C.  Jim- 
ison  Johnson,  who  taught  school  up  to  Har- 
mony, was  one  of  them  exceptions,  for  he  be- 
came County  Superintendent  of  Schools  and  got 
a  thousand  a  year;  but,  speaking  generally,  a 
fellow  with  a  brain  full  of  idees  is  like  a  gun 
loaded  with  buckshot,  and  birdshot,  and  nails, 
and  tacks — when  it's  fired,  if  it  don't  burst, 
it  just  brings  down  leaves  and  twigs,  while  a 
single  bullet  goes  straight  and  furder,  and  kills. 
So,  you  see,  determination  is  to  the  mind  what- 
the  powder  is  to  the  rifle. 

The  most  determinedest  man  I  ever  knowd 
was  Shadrach  Dinkle,  a  cousin  of  Ossy  Dinkle, 
and  also,  on  his  ma's  side,  related  by  marriage 
to  Percy  Berry,  who  lived  the  life  beautiful. 
And,  bein'  the  most  determinedest,  he  was  one 
of  the  most  small  men  I  ever  see,  for  if  you'll 
notice,  you  observe  that  the  more  littler  a  man 
is  the  more  determineder  he  is. 

"I'm  little,"  Shadrach  used  to  say,  "but  I'm 
mighty." 

He  was  mighty.  There  was  nothing  that 
242 


fellow  couldn't  do,  simply  because  he  was  so 
determined.  Oncet  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
have  a  thing  there  was  no  peace  in  town  till  he 
got  it.  He  was  born  rich,  and  with  an  income 
of  $500  a  year  there  was  no  use  of  his  trying 
to  pile  up  more  wealth,  so  he  went  in  for  glory. 
He  made  up  his  mind  he  would  be  a  school 
director  when  he  was  twenty-one,  and  we  had 
no  rest  till  we  elected  him.  Likewise  when  he 
wanted  to  be  road-supervisor  and  squire.  By 
the  time  he  was  thirty  he  had  been  'most  every- 
thing a  man  could  be  that  was  worth  being.  He 
had  never  married.  That  wasn't  because  the 
girls  wouldn't  have  him,  because  a  man  as  rich 
as  he  was  could  have  had  'most  any  of  'em  with- 
out having  to  be  determined;  but  so  many  of 
'em  was  so  determined  to  have  him  he  was  more 
determineder  not  to  have  them,  and  it  used  to 
give  him  pleasure  just  to  prove  that  he  was  the 
strongest  minded. 

Shadrach  Dinkle  was  little,  and  he  was  cer- 
tainly mighty.  Whatever  he  said  went  for  truth 
in  the  town  of  Harmony,  because  if  it  wasn't 
so,  we  kind  of  had  an  idee  it  would  be  before 
long,  just  because  he  wanted  it.  Why,  if  he 

243 


SIX  STAES 

had  said  he  had  decided  to  move  the  mountain 
a  mile  or  two  this  way  or  that  way,  there  wasn't 
one  of  us  around  the  store  wouldn't  have  gone 
up  on  the  hill  to  watch  him  do  it.  That  they 
stayed  where  they  was  must  have  been  simply 
because  he  had  not  made  up  his  mind;  but  to 
move  them  mountains  was  about  the  only  thing 
to  be  done  around  the  walley  that  he  had  not 
did.  Mind  you,  by  the  time  he  was  thirty  he 
had  done  all  there  was  to  do.  He  had  been 
school  director,  supervisor  and  squire,  and  had 
never  married.  He  was  getting  kind  of  down- 
like  and  discouraged,  because  there  was  no  more 
worlds  to  conquer,  as  General  Grant  said,  when 
one  day  there  come  to  Harmony,  from  Snyder 
County,  a  beautiful  Swedish  lady  called  Nora 
Yonson,  who  was  hired  by  the  Widow  Berry, 
she  being  bedrid,  to  nurse  her  and  do  the  cook- 
ing, and  take  care  of  the  garden  and  the  gen- 
eral light  housework.  I  never  seen  a  more 
splendider  looking  woman.  She  was  about  six 
foot  tall  and  built  in  proportion,  and  had  gold 
hair  and  a  smile,  and  hands  as  big — well,  you 
otter  have  seen  Nora's  hands. 
Now  Shadrach  Dinkle,  coming  down  to  store 
244 


THE  MOST  DETERMINEDEST  MAN 

one  day  after  dinner,  happened  to  pass  Widow 
Berry's  house,  and  seen  Nora  spading  up  the 
front  flower-bed.  She  seen  him,  and  stood  up 
and  looked  over  the  fence  at  him  like  he  was 
a  curiosity,  as  his  hat  just  showed  over  the  top 
of  the  palings.  As  for  Shadrach,  he  looked 
up  at  her  like  she  was  a  statue.  For  a  minute 
them  two  stared.  Then  Miss  Yonson,  she  not 
knowing  that  Shadrach  was  mighty,  put  those 
hands  to  her  side,  and  leaned  back  and  laughed 
aud  laughed  like  she'd  die.  That  riled  him  ter- 
rible, for  never  in  his  life  had  he  been  laughed 
at.  He  spoke  to  her  wery  sharp,  and  she  being 
Swedish  and  from  Snyder  County,  and  not  un- 
derstanding Pennsylvania  English,  fairly 
roared,  she  was  so  tickled.  Then  he  yelled,  to 
make  her  understand,  but  she  only  laughed 
louder.  So  he  come  down  to  store  about  the 
indignantest  man  I  ever  see.  Eight  after  him 
was  his  cousin,  Ossy  Dinkle,  who  was  the  great- 
est josher  we  ever  had  in  Harmony,  and,  hav- 
ing seen  the  meeting  at  Widow  Berry's,  he 
didn't  know  no  better  than  to  josh  Shadrach. 
But  Shadrach  had  cooled  a  bit  and  kep'  his 
temper,  and  kind  of  smiled  scornful,  and  smoked 

245 


SIX  STARS 

and  thought.  So  we  uns  all  fell  to  smoking 
and  thinking,  and  we  smoked  and  studied  al- 
most an  hour.  Then  Shadrach  he  spoke  up  all 
of  a  sudden,  knocking  his  pipe  on  the  counter 
to  show  how  his  mind  was  made  up. 

' '  Well,  boys, ' '  says  he,  *  *  I  Ve  an  idee. '  * 

We  all  looks  up  inquiring. 

"I've  determined  to  marry  that  Miss  Yon- 
son,"  ha  says,  shutting  his  jaws  with  a  snap 
and  glaring  at  us. 

Of  course  we  all  knowd  then  and  there  that 
when  he  spoke  like  that  it  was  as  good  as  a 
wedding,  but  we  was  kind  of  surprised  at  him, 
as  had  refused  so  many  weemen,  giving  in  all 
of  a  sudden. 

"But,  from  what  I  seen,  she  won't  have  you," 
says  Ossy  Dinkle. 

"That's  just  why  I've  determined  to  marry 
her,"  says  Shadrach,  his  eyes  flashing.  "She 
laughed  at  me  because  I'm  little;  but  she  don't 
know  that  I'm  mighty.  She  is  determined  not 
to  marry  me,  and  I'm  going  to  show  that  I'm 
more  determineder." 

"But  how  can  you  show  her,  when  she  can't 
speak  a  word  of  Pennsylvania  English?"  says 

246 


THE  MOST  DETEKMINEDEST  MAN 

Ossy  Dinkle,  who  had  a  way  of  allus  raising 
objections  to  things  that  he  had  no  interest  in. 

"If  I  was  as  weak-minded  as  you  I  couldn't," 
says  Shadrach,  wery  cool.  "The  fact  she's 
Swedish  makes  me  more  determineder,  for 
there's  something  to  accomplish.  Besides, 
blessed  is  the  man  who  has  a  wife  that  he  can't 
understand,  yet  who  he  can  make  understand 
him.  Now,  I'm  going  to  start." 

With  that  Shadrach  Dinkle  got  up  and  went 
to  "Widow  Berry's,  we  all  a-follering  a  few  rods 
away  to  see  him  begin.  Miss  Yonson  was  still 
spading  the  flower-bed,  but  when  she  seen  him 
she  straightened  up  and  grinned  so  loud  as  we 
could  see  it  away  down  the  road.  Shadrach  he 
bowed  polite-like,  opened  the  gate,  went  in,  set 
down  on  the  porch,  got  out  his  pipe,  lighted  it, 
made  himself  wery  comfortable  with  his  head 
agin  a  post  and  smiled  too.  Miss  Yonson  was 
took  back  a  minute,  but  then  she  began  to  laugh 
like  she'd  die;  so  when  we  come  up  there  she 
was  leaning  on  the  spade,  laughing  and  laugh- 
ing so  loud  you  could  have  heard  it  at  the  store, 
and  there  he  was  on  the  porch,  smiling  like  a 
cat  after  dinner  on  a  sunny  day. 

247 


SIX  STAES 

Of  course  we  didn't  dast  stand  there  star- 
ing, so  we  all  wandered  on  by,  like  we  was  in- 
terested in  something  else;  but,  be  peeking 
outen  the  corner  of  our  eyes,  we  knowd  well 
enough  what  the  trouble  was.  We  knowd  she 
was  laughing  and  he  was  smiling  because  each 
of  'em  thought  they  was  more  determineder 
than  the  other.  The  game  was  on,  but  they 
wasn't  one  of  us  what  'ud  V  bet  a  doughnut 
agin  a  dollar  on  that  Swedish  lady ;  but,  though 
we  knowd  it  was  only  a  matter  of  days  till 
Shadrach  won,  we  give  up  the  store  in  the  after- 
noon and  took  to  wandering  up  and  down  in 
front  of  the  Widow  Berry's  place,  kind  of  ob- 
serving. Shadrach  was  allus  there  in  the  after- 
noon, keeping  company ;  but  it  was  the  queerest 
company  I  ever  saw  kept,  for  she  couldn't 
speak  Pennsylvanian,  and  he  could  talk  better 
Dog  than  Swedish,  so  he  just  set  there  smoking 
and  smiling  and  watching  her  digging  garden 
and  weeding;  and  every  now  and  then  she'd 
have  a  spell  of  laughing.  Then  when  it  come 
time  for  her  to  go  in  and  look  after  Widow 
Berry,  she  'd  just  kind  of  pick  Shadrach  up  and 
lead  him  outen  the  yard,  and  give  him  a  push 

248 


THE  MOST  DETEEMINEDEST  MAN 

that  would  send  him  flying  towards  the  store — 
her  all  the  time  just  busting  with  amusement, 
for  she  was  the  most  good-humoredest  woman 
I  ever  see. 

Well,  one  day  the  follering  week  Shadrach 
Dinkle  went  down  to  see  Herman  Holler,  and 
asked  him  to  do  a  little  interpreting,  saying  he 
had  found  that  Miss  Yonson  was  a  very  good 
Pennsylvania  Dutch  speaker.  So  up  them  two 
went  to  the  Widow  Berry's,  and  what  was  said 
I  got  later  from  my  cousin,  who  married  a  sister 
of  Herman  Holler 's  wife,  she  being  Luella  Em- 
ily Tompkins,  of  Fairview. 

"Tell  her,"  says  Shadrach  Dinkle  to  Her- 
man Holler,  "tell  her  that  I've  determined 
to  marry  her;  that  I'm  the  richest  man  in  town, 
having  $500  a  year;  that  I'm  small  but  mighty; 
that,  as  I'm  the  most  determinedest  man  in  the 
walley,  she  might  just  as  well  give  in." 

So  Herman  Holler  he  told  her. 

"Tell  him,"  says  Miss  Yonson  to  Herman 
Holler,  "tell  him  that  I'm  determined  not  to 
marry  him.  He's  so  little  he  makes  me  laugh 
every  time  I  see  him,  and  I'd  never  knowd  he 
was  mighty  if  he  hadn't  told  me." 

249 


SIX  STARS 

That  got  Shadrach  Dinkle  so  mad  he  couldn't 
speak  for  a  minute.  He  shook  his  fist  right  in 
her  face  and  says,  says  he:  "Tell  her,"  he 
says,  "that  I  ain't  used  to  being  spoke  that  way 
of,  and  that  now  I'm  more  determineder  than 
ever.  The  wedding  will  be  to-morrow  afternoon 
at  four.'* 

'  *  Tell  him, ' '  says  Miss  Yonson, ' '  that  he  can't 
skeer-me,  as  I've  sent  for  my  brothers  for  pro- 
tection. ' ' 

When  Shadrach  heard  that  he  begin  to  laugh, 
and  he  got  Herman  Holler  and  pulled  him  outen 
the  house,  and  the  two  of  'em  come  down  to  the 
store,  laughing  and  laughing.  We  was  all  wait- 
ing, and  Shadrach  he  give  us  invitations  to 
the  wedding.  The  idee  of  any  woman  trying 
to  escape  him  oncet  his  mind  was  made  up! 
He  'd  show  us,  he  said.  And  the  next  afternoon 
he  showed  us. 

We  all  met  at  the  store,  and  at  four  o'clock 
Shadrach  came  along,  dressed  up  fit  to  kill,  in 
a  Prince  Albert  coat  and  leading  Preacher 
Spiegelnail.  So  we  went,  two  be  two,  up  to 
Widow  Berry's,  and  to  our  surprise  Miss  Yon- 
son  she  opened  the  door,  smiling,  and  showed 

250 


THE  MOST  DETERMINEDEST  MAN 

herself  all  done  up  lovely,  with  her  hair  frizzed 
and  ribbons  all  over  her.  Shadrach  was  kind 
of  took  by  surprise,  and  it  looked  like  he'd 
turn  and  run,  but  we  was  pushing  up  behind, 
and  into  the  room  he  went.  For  a  minute  we 
all  stared  at  Miss  Yonson,  and  she  stood 
with  her  arms  folded,  looking  back  and 
smiling. 

"Tell  her,"  says  Shadrach  to  Herman  Holler, 
"that  I'm  here  determined  to  marry  her  and 
have  brought  the  preacher. ' ' 

"Well,  I'm  all  ready,"  said  Miss  Yonson, 
rising  up,  in  the  most  excellentest  Pennsylvania 
English.  "And  I'm  determined  to  marry 
you." 

Shadrach  Dinkle  he  almost  fainted  when  he 
heard  her  speak  so  plain.  He  stood  on  one  foot 
and  then  the  other;  he  mopped  his  face  and 
almost  begin  to  cry.  Then  his  spirit  come 
back,  and  all  his  strength  of  mind,  and  he  begin 
to  laugh. 

"Gentlemen,"  says  he,  turning  to  us,  "you 
see  I  have  kept  my  word  and  won  the  lady  who 
was  determined  not  to  marry  me.  It's  no  use 
of  this  thing  going  any  furder  since  I've 

251 


SIX  STARS 

proved  what  determination  can  do.  We'll  go 
back  to  the  store  and  have  se-gars." 

1  'Wait  till  you  see  my  brothers,"  says  Miss 
Yonson,  and  then  she  calls,  * '  Schon !  Chake ! ' ' 

The  kitchen  door  opened,  and  in  come  the 
two  most  largest  men  I  ever  set  eyes  on,  and 
stands  there,  looking  at  Shadrach  wery  solemn, 
like  they'd  eat  him. 

"You'll  give  me  away,  Chake,'*  says  Miss 
Yonson,  "and  you,  Schon,  will  keep  the  gentle- 
men from  getting  out. ' ' 

With  that  she  wrapped  that  big  hand  of  hers 
around  Shadrach  Dinkle's,  and,  turning  to  the 
preacher,  says,  says  she,  "You  may  proceed, 
Mr.  Spiegelnail. " 

Now,  had  we  had  anything  to  say  then  I  don't 
think  we'd  have  objected  to  having  Shadrach 
Dinkle  ketched  that  way,  for  we  was  really  get- 
ting tired  of  his  determined  ways ;  tired  of  his 
allus  being  right  and  allus  doing  everything 
well  and  never  being  beat,  and  it  seemed  a 
mighty  good  lesson  to  him  to  be  married.  But 
we  never  had  any  chance  to  say  nothing;  be- 
tween them  most  largest  brothers  and  that  most 
determinedest  woman.  The  preacher  he  kind  of 

252 


THE  MOST  DETERMINEDEST  MAN 

gasped,  but  she  give  him  one  look  and  he  didn't 
hesitate  any  more.  Shadrach  he  hesitated  once 
only,  just  once,  and  in  one  minute  it  was  all  over 
with  him. 

Shadrach  Dinkle  he  was  never  the  same  agin, 
and  it  was  a  blessing — a  public  blessing.  From 
the  most  determinedest  man  I  ever  see  he  be- 
come the  hesitatingest,  and  seemed  to  be  glad 
he  was  allowed  to  live.  Just  the  other  day  I 
seen  him  going  through  town  with  his  two 
youngest  daughters,  both  of  'em  nearly  six  feet 
and  built  in  proportion,  both  of  'em  setting  on 
the  seat  of  the  buggy,  but  him  squeezed  in  be- 
hind, with  his  legs  dangling  out  most  pathetic. 


253 


THE  UPLIFTING  POWER  OF  PRIDE 

FROM  an  egg-crate  on  the  store  porch,  on  a 
day  in  spring  when  the  sun  was  out  and 
every  man  in  the  village  who  was  blessed  with 
nothing  to  do  had  gathered  at  the  bench,  he 
spoke  of  pride  and  its  uplifting  power. 

•  •  •  •  • 

If  you  observe,  you'll  notice  that  a  balloon 
has  to  be  filled  with  gas  before  it  even  begins 
to  rise.  People  are  like  balloons.  You  see  'em 
fill  up  with  pride  and  then  they  begin  to  go 
wafting  higher,  and  higher,  and  higher,  until 
we  ordinary  folks,  moving  around  earth's  sur- 
face, can't  be  told  from  animals.  Now,  the 
idee  has  long  been  prevailing  that  folks  rise 
first  and  then  swell;  but  it's  wrong.  It's  just 
as  wrong  to  suppose  a  balloon  soars  into  the 
clouds  first  and  fills  up  with  gas  afterwards. 
Sometimes  balloons  burst  and  down  they  come. 
So  it  is  with  people  when  the  pressure  of  pride 
becomes  too  great — their  heads  kind  of  give 

254 


THE  UPLIFTING  POWER  OF  PRIDE 

way  and  they  tumble  to  common  earth  again. 
Man's  present  elevation  was  reached  by  the  up- 
lifting power  of  pride.  Without  it  he  would 
still  be  swinging  from  tree  to  tree  with  his  tail 
or  eating  peanuts  in  a  zoological  garden.  You 
look  surprised  at  me  advancing  theories  that 
our  race  growed  up  by  evil-lution.  You  hold, 
I  s'pose,  to  the  old  idee  that  Adam  and  Eve 
was  moving  figures  made  of  dust.  You'll  no- 
tice, if  you  observe,  that  them  as  knows  all 
about  what  happened  thousands  of  years  be- 
fore there  was  any  reading,  writing  and  'rith- 
metic  says  positive  that  Adam  and  Eve  just 
kind  of  come  down  to  earth  from  nowhere  and 
settled  and  raised  the  human  family.  Con- 
trariwise, them  that  don't  know  enything,  that 
aren't  sure  that  we  exist  even,  or  that  what  we 
see  is  real,  figgers  it  out  that  most  likely  men 
revoluted  from  the  animals. 

Now,  I'm  inclined  to  believe  in  evil-lution. 
Of  course  it  is  possible  that  in  the  creation 
man  was  made  separate,  but  the  idee  of  him 
certainly  come  from  the  monkeys.  It  was 
found  out  that  they  worked  all  right,  then  man 
was  put  up  as  an  improvement.  I  say  that 

255 


SIX  STABS 

is  possible,  but  not  likely.  It  seems  more  natu- 
ral that  we  come  down  direct,  and  when  we 
consider  what  pride  can  do  we  see  how  easy  it 
was.  The  same  kind  of  revolution  goes  on  un- 
der our  eyes  every  day,  only  we  don't  notice 
it.  Look  back  thousands  of  years  ago,  when 
there  wasn't  any  men.  We  see  a  whole  monkey 
village  in  the  tree-tops,  all  the  folks  chattering 
and  swinging  from  limb  to  limb  by  their  tails. 
A  youth  is  born  with  a  shorter  tail  than  is  the 
style  at  the  time  and  with  exceptional  nice  fur. 
His  mother  begins  to  point  out  how  different 
he  is  from  the  other  children,  how  he  has  such 
a  lovely  silky  fur,  and  such  sweet  blue  eyes, 
and  how  he  has  such  a  refined  tail,  none  of  them 
old-fashioned  long  ones  that  has  been  worn  so 
many  thousand  years.  Naturally  the  youngster 
gets  proud.  He  sees  he's  different  from  the 
other  folks  around  him;  he  begins  to  part  his 
hair  all  the  way  down  the  middle  of  his  back 
and  to  treat  the  others  as  if  they  were  only  poor 
relations.  He  gets  kind  of  bored  with  the  life 
and  the  first  thing  we  know  he  moves  down  to 
the  ground  where  he  can  be  more  alone.  Pretty 
soon  he  finds  that  he  can  see  better  if  he  walks 

256 


THE  UPLIFTING  POWER  OF  PRIDE 

on  his  hind  feet  instead  of  all-fours,  and  be- 
sides it  makes  him  more  different  from  the 
others,  gives  him  an  air  of  distinction.  Now, 
of  course  there  would  be  no  evil-lution  if  it 
wasn't  for  the  gentle  sect;  but,  looking  down 
from  the  trees,  they  see  him.  "Who,"  says 
they,  "is  that  distinguished  looking  chap,  so 
proud  and  uppish,  who  walks  on  his  hind  feet 
and  parts  his  hair  down  his  back?" 

You  can  figger  it  on  out  down  to  the  present 
day.  Pride  done  it.  When  a  few  exclusive 
monkeys  got  to  living  on  the  ground,  the  others 
followed,  just  to  be  in  the  swim.  Walking  up- 
right become  the  style  and  tails  went  entirely 
out  of  fashion  when  they  weren't  needed  any 
longer  for  swings.  Pride  kept  on  working. 
The  ground  got  common  as  a  dwelling-place, 
and  houses  were  the  fashion,  being  exclusive, 
though,  for  my  part,  I  can't  see  but  what  a  nice 
leafy  limb,  with  the  proper  amount  of  spring  to 
it,  is  about  as  good  a  place  as  one  could  ask  to 
live,  if  he  was  used  to  it.  Trouble  kept  on  pil- 
ing up.  Clothes  come  in  style,  the  ancestor  of 
the  present  elegant  Prince  Albert  being  noth- 
ing less  than  a  simple  garment  of  homespun 

257 


SIX  STARS 

leaves.  The  fur  all  wore  off,  and  then  some 
idiot  finished  up  the  destruction  by  introducing 
the  habit  of  shaving. 

Pride  done  it.  Pride  raised  up  the  human 
race  from  its  humble,  happy,  chattering  life 
among  the  trees.  Pride  brought  us  out  of  that 
simple  state  to  our  present  greatness.  It  give 
us  striped  shirts,  Prince  Alberts,  pi-annos,  par- 
lors, plush  furniture,  crayon  portraits,  ice- 
cream freezers — a  thousand  and  one  appendixes 
of  civilization,  that  have  complicated  life  till 
we  actually  have  debates  as  to  whether  it  is 
worth  living.  We  hold  ourselves  high  above 
the  dog  because  he  can't  play  the  pi-anno — 
as  if  he  wanted  to — as  if  he'd  be  any  happier 
if  he  could. 

All  of  this  leads  me  up  to  Octavia  Simpkins 
Tooney,  who  lives  in  Pleasantville  to-day,  un- 
der her  husband's  name,  and  has  allus  seemed 
to  me  a  splendid  example  of  pride's  uplifting 
power.  I  went  to  school  in  Harmony  with  Oc- 
tavia Simpkins  Tooney;  only  we  knowd  her 
then  as  plain  Tawy  Tooney,  a  nice,  simple,  lit- 
tle thing,  who  would  have  been  better  looking 
if  she  hadn't  squinted.  She  was  dead  common 

258 


then  and  was  a  good  friend  of  me  and  Ossy 
Dinkle  and  Welly  Wackle  and  all  the  boys  of 
our  set,  and  spoke  to  us  all  by  our  nicknames 
most  friendly  like,  and  sometimes  we'd  call  her 
Squint  for  short,  and  she  never  minded  it  at 
all.  We  all  kind  of  figgered  her  as  one  of  us 
and  liked  her  first-rate,  though  she  wasn't  the 
kind  of  girl  you'd  run  after  very  hard  to  kiss 
when  you  was  playing  "Ring  Around  the 
Rosy,"  like  you  would  Luella  Tompkins,  who 
had  yeller  hair  and  blue  eyes.  "Oh,  no," 
you'd  say,  "it's  only  Squint  Tooney,"  and 
you  wouldn't  bother.  She  wasn't  smart. 
She  could  just  about  read,  that  was  all; 
and  when  you  told  her  a  joke  she  would 
look  at  you  solemn  for  five  minutes,  and 
then  say,  "Well!"  She  wasn't  rich.  Her  pa 
died  and  left  her  too  much  money  for  her  to 
live  in  the  country  and  too  little  to  live  in  a  real 
town.  So  she  stayed  in  Harmony.  "Poor 
Tawy  Tooney!"  everybody  used  to  say,  "she's 
plain,  she's  stupid  and  hasn't  much  money  or 
any  prospects;  nothing  but  good  nature." 

That  shows  how  folks  misjudge — how  little 
they  really  know.    Tawy  was  about  eighteen 

259 


SIX  STARS 

when  her  pa  died,  and  she  was  so  upset  by  the 
sad  event  that  she  had  to  take  some  of  his  life 
insurance  and  spend  a  month  in  Philadelphia 
and  another  at  Atlantic  City.  In  the  fall  she 
came  back,  bringing  with  her  a  young  lady 
friend.  I  mind  that  day  well.  Walking  down 
the  street  from  the  store  one  afternoon,  dressed 
in  my  regular  clothes,  I  see  two  strange  weemen 
approaching.  I  come  to  a  stop  and  rubbed  my 
eyes  and  stared  till  I  made  out  one  to  be  Tawy 
Tooney,  but  I  wouldn't  V  been  sure  only  she 
squinted  so  hard  at  me.  She  had  a  straw  hat, 
tipped  to  one  side,  and  her  hair  hung  in  a  loose 
bunch  behind,  and  her  nose  was  decorated  with 
a  pair  of  eye-glasses  with  a  brass  chain,  and  she 
was  tucked  in  very  tight  at  the  waist,  and  kind 
of  kept  falling  forward  instead  of  regularly 
walking.  Mighty !  but  I  was  glad  to  see  her — 
to  see  old  Tawy  Tooney,  who  had  played  right 
field  in  my  nine  when  we  was  boys ! 

"Hello,   Squint!"  I  cried,  most  delighted, 
holding  out  my  hand,  for  her  never  to  see. 

"I  presume  you  mean  Miss  Tooney,"  says 
she,  very  cold.    "If  so,  how  do  you  do!" 
that  she  kept  on  right  by  me. 
260 


THE  UPLIFTING  POWER  OF  PEIDE 

"Who  is  that  person,  Octavia?"  says  the 
lady  friend,  very  loud  and  shocked  like. 

"Only  one  of  the  local  young  men,  Gwen- 
dolen," says  Octavia  Tooney.  "You  must  ex- 
cuse them — it's  only  ignorance,  not  natural 
badness  of  heart,"  she  says. 

Mad?  I  was  never  so  mad  in  all  my  life, 
when  I  see  how  this  plain  Tavvy  Tooney  ac- 
tually thought  she  was  better  than  me.  "I'll 
show  her,"  I  says;  "I'll  break  her  proud  spirit; 
I'll  bring  her  down  to  her  knees,  I  will."  So 
that  very  night  I  fixed  myself  all  up  and  went 
to  call — the  first  real  call  I  had  ever  made  on 
her,  though  I'd  set  up  with  most  every  girl  in 
Harmony. 

"Good-evening,  Miss  Tooney,"  says  I  when 
she  opened  the  door. 

"How  do  you  do?"  says  she;  "step  right 
into  the  drawing-room, ' '  she  says.  ' '  I  want  you 
to  shake  hands  with  my  friend  Miss  Gwendolen 
Smith  Pretty.  Miss  Pretty,  you  know,  is  a 
direct  descendant  of  Captain  John  Smith." 

"Indeed?"  says  I,  rather  surprised,  for  I'd 
knowd  the  Captain  all  my  life  and  didn't  know 
he  had  any  girls;  but  I  hadn't  time  to  figger 

261 


SIX  STARS 

out  how  it  was,  for  I  had  to  set  down  and  talk— 
or,  I  should  say,  listen — for  Miss  Tooney  had 
most  to  say. 

"I  s'pose  you  are  glad  to  be  home  again, 
Squint, "  says  I.  "I  mean  Miss  Tooney." 

She  froze  up  for  a  minute.  Then  she  an- 
swers, very  calm:  "Glad;  why  should  I? 
Harmony's  such  a  dead  place,  I  just  had  to 
bring  Miss  Pretty  home  with  me  for  a  while  to 
keep  me  company.  She  was  a  dear  to  come,  too, 
for  she  has  an  elegant  position  in  a  Philadelphy 
store.  But  I  suppose  I'll  get  used  to  it  by  and 
by  here,  though  there's  hardly  anybody  fit  to 
associate  with — hardly  anybody  that  knows 
anything. ' ' 

My  hair  must  have  been  standing  on  end,  or 
else  she  caught  a  queer  look  in  my  eye,  for  she 
het  up  a  bit. 

"I  s'pose  you  think  it  curious  that  I  com- 
plain about  people  here  not  knowing  anything, ' ' 
she  says.  "Well,  mebbe  I  am  a  poor  speller 
and  could  never  multiply,  but  there's  more 
things  to  be  knowd  in  this  world  than's  found 
in  books.  Why  should  I  have  to  know  any- 
thing, anyway — I  who  was  born  to  my  position? 

262 


THE  UPLIFTING  POWER  OF  PRIDE 

You  know  my  pa  kept  the  biggest  store  in  Bark- 
town  at  one  time,  and  my  grandpa,  on  Mother's 
side,  was  a  Presbyterian  preacher." 

"I  should  think,  Octavia  dear,"  says  Miss 
Pretty,  "you'd  hardly  ever  meet  a  man  in  a 
place  like  this  that  a  girl  with  any  pride  would 
care  to  marry." 

"Never,"  said  Miss  Tooney.  "If  I  stayed 
in  Harmony  I  should  die  an  old  maid. ' ' 

I  felt  like  saying  she  most  likely  would,  but 
somehow  I  lost  my  courage.  Them  girls  had 
made  me  feel  as  if  I  wasn't  quite  as  good  as 
they  were,  and  I  didn't  want  to  laugh  at  them 
at  all.  I  was  real  anxious  to  prove  different; 
to  lift  myself  up  to  them  and  look  down  with 
them  on  the  others.  Miss  Tooney  made  me  mad, 
but  the  madder  I  got  the  more  she  was  on  my 
mind,  and  the  first  thing  I  knowd  I  was  crazy 
about  her.  Rhoda  Sizzle  she  was  pretty  as  a 
pickter,  but  what  was  the  use  of  capturing  her, 
who  was  just  setting  around,  without  any  pride, 
smiling  and  waiting  to  be  taken.  I  wanted  to 
do  something  better  than  that.  Once  you  feel 
humble  you  begin  to  get  proud.  I  opened  a 
regular  campaign,  and  every  evening  regular 

263 


SIX  STABS 

went  up  to  Tooneys'.  And  the  more  I  went  the 
uppisher  them  girls  got,  and  the  humbler  I  felt 
and  the  ambitiouser. 

And  I  wasn't  the  only  man  in  Harmony  who 
was  hit  hard.  There  was  Ossy  Dinkle,  and 
young  Oriole  Jackson,  and  Wellington  Wackle, 
and  a  half  dozen  others,  who  was  snubbed  so  re- 
peated and  often  that  they  began  to  pine  away 
with  love. 

Clara  Wheedle  had  lovely,  dreamy  eyes,  but 
we  didn't  find  them  half  as  fascinating  as  Miss 
Octavia  Simpkins  Tooney's  left  when  she 
winked  it  at  you  steady  for  five  minutes  through 
them  elegant  glasses.  Bhoda  Sizzle's  hair  was 
like  gold,  and  used  to  shine  and  glisten  and 
twinkle  in  the  lamplight,  but  we  soon  see  that 
there  was  a  certain  style  in  Miss  Tooney's  red 
that  the  other  girls  couldn't  get.  It  was  what 
they  were  all  wearing  then  in  Philadelphia, 
Miss  Pretty  told  us  in  a  whisper,  and  we  wor- 
shipped it — fairly  worshipped  it,  Oriole  Jack- 
son even  going  so  far  as  to  compose  a  po-em, 
called  "Blood-red  Tresses."  Sapphira  Lime 
had  a  face — such  a  face,  with  red  cheeks  and 
dimples;  but  it  passed  from  our  minds  once 

264 


THE  UPLIFTING  POWER  OF  PRIDE 

we  really  noticed  the  pale  patrician  cast  that 
had  been  handed  down  from  the  Presbyterian 
preacher.  It's  wonderful  what  well-placed 
pride  will  do. 

I  mind  one  day,  when  I  dropped  into  the  store 
and  see  Ossy,  and  Oriole,  and  Lucien,  and  Eli- 
sha,  and  Wellington  all  setting  there  in  silence, 
smoking,  very  down-hearted. 

"Of  course,"  says  Ossy  Dinkle,  when  he  see 
me,  "of  course  you  are  invited  to  meet  Miss 
Gwendolen  Smith  Pretty  to-morrow  evening  at 
seven?" 

"Of  course  not,"  says  I.  "You  don't  sup- 
pose she'd  ask  me? " 

"It's  to  be  very  select,"  says  Oriole,  melan- 
choly. "The  people  are  mostly  coming  from 
Barktown,  and  there  '11  be  euchre  and  ice-cream. 
But  I'd  give  anything  for  an  invite." 

"I  allow  she  felt  we  wouldn't  mix  well  with 
them  Barktown  folks,"  says  Wellington. 

"I  guess  she  figgers  that  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Spiegelnail  and  the  Doctor  are  about  the  only 
Harmony  folks  that's  swell  enough,"  says 
Elisha. 

"We  are  kind  of  crude  to  her,  I  s'pose,"  says 
265 


SIX  STABS 

I,  sitting  down  and  smoking  very  hard  and 
thinking  it  all  over. 

My  mind  was  made  up  at  last.  I  wasn't  go- 
ing to  be  snubbed  any  longer.  Miss  Octavia 
Simpkins  Tooney  was  only  Squint  Tooney,  af- 
ter all,  and  I  was  just  as  good  as  she  was,  and 
was  going  to  marry  her.  I  wouldn't  fool  any 
more,  but  would  go  right  up  and  claim  her— 
tell  her  how  I  loved  her  from  childhood,  how 
that  love  had  increased  all  them  years  she 
played  right  field  on  my  baseball  team,  and  how 
it  wasn't  any  use  for  her  to  try  to  get  away 
from  it  any  longer.  Dear  old  Squint ! 

Somehow  when  I  got  to  the  scene  I  wasn't 
so  brave  as  I  intended  to  be.  Somehow  I  could 
not  say,  " Squint,  dear,"  in  the  loving  way  I'd 
planned,  just  to  awaken  the  old  memories. 
Somehow  I  had  to  set  twiddling  my  thumbs  for 
nearly  a  half  hour  before  I  could  get  to  the 
point  at  all. 

"Miss  Tooney/'  I  began  at  last,  "I  have 
something  I  wish  to  say  to  you." 

"Well,  save  yourself  the  trouble,"  says  she, 
very  calm  and  proud.  "I  suppose  it  is  the  same 
as  Mr.  Dinkle  said  last  evening,  and  Mr. 

266 


THE  UPLIFTING  POWER  OF  PRIDE 

Wackle  on  Tuesday,  and  Mr.  Jackson  Sun- 
day morning  when  he  pressed  his  company  on 
me  after  church." 

"But,  Tawy,"  I  began,  making  elegant  eyes 
and  kind  of  drawling  it  out. 

"Don't  Tawy  me,  please,"  says  she.  "You 
forget  who  I  am.  My  pa  kept  the  biggest  store 
in  Barktown  and  my  grandpa,  on  Mother's  side, 
was  a  Presbyterian  preacher.  That's  some- 
thing you  men  all  seem  to  forget.  There's  one 
thing  I  won't  do,  and  that  is  marry  beneath 
me." 

"But  I  can't  see  but  what  we  are  about 
equal,"  says  I,  plaintive  like. 

"Equal!"  says  she,  laughing.  "A  country; 
store  clerk  my  equal !" 

"Mebbe  I  might  work  up,"  says  I,  humble 
like. 

"But  blood  will  out,"  says  she.  "You'll 
never  catch  me  mating  with  country  store  clerks 
and  blacksmiths  and  such  like — never!" 

Now,  for  a  man  like  me,  that  had  refused 
nearly  every  girl  in  Harmony,  this  was  pretty 
hard;  but  Miss  Tooney  was  so  firm  that  I  be- 
gin to  see  that  she  meant  it.  She  did 

267 


SIX  STARS 

mean  it.  She  had  pride  and  pride  only, 
and  with  that  she  had  done  what  every  other 
girl  in  Harmony  had  been  trying  to  do  for 
a  year.  Luella  Tompkins  had  tried  the  hard- 
est, and,  she  being  at  the  same  time  the 
prettiest  girl  in  town,  almost  succeeded.  Then 
Miss  Octavia  Simpkins  Tooney  took  a  hand 
and  gave  another  euchre  party  in  January 
asking  only  Barktown  folks,  and  leaving  out 
especially  Henry  J.  Jackson,  a  very  rich  com- 
mercial traveller,  who  was  spending  a  week 
with  his  cousin  Oriole.  Of  course  everybody 
thought  she  would  ask  Henry  J.,  he  being  from 
Pleasantville,  and  very  handsome,  and  a  most 
tasty  dresser.  But  not  her.  Have  a  mere 
drummer  in  her  house,  she  said,  to  meet  the 
oldest  families  in  Barktown?  Never!  That 
made  Mr.  Jackson  so  mad  he  forgot  all  about 
Luella  Tompkins  and  set  around  the  store  the 
whole  afternoon  saying  mean  things  about  Miss 
Tooney.  But  when  she  came  in  to  get  some 
washing  blue  he  got  up  most  polite  and  asked 
if  he  might  escort  her  home. 

"If  you  insist, "  she  answers,  squinting  at 
him  very  cold. 

268 


THE  UPLIFTING  POWER  OF  PRIDE 

Luella  see  them  going  up  the  street,  Henry 
J.  doing  all  the  talking,  Henry  J.  looking  his 
handsomest,  Henry  J.  laying  himself  out  to  be 
pleasing;  telling  her  all  about  his  family,  all 
about  his  pa,  who  had  been  a  captain  in  the 
militia,  and  his  grandpa,  on  his  mother's  side, 
who  was  the  leading  druggist  of  Pleasantville. 
Luella  was  almost  wild.  She  stood  by  the  gate 
when  Henry  J.  came  back,  which  was  very  soon, 
for  Miss  Tooney  never  invited  him  in;  she 
smiled  her  sweetest  and  looked  her  loveliest, 
but  the  young  man  just  nodded  and  went  on 
by,  with  his  head  hanging  and  kind  of  study- 
ing steps,  for  he  was  feeling  humble,  wonder- 
ing what  there  was  about  him  that  would  make 
a  proud  girl  despise  him  so,  wondering  why  he 
had  always  been  so  blind  as  not  to  know  that 
pride  fascinateth  a  hundredfold  more  than 
mere  beauty.  He  would  show  her;  he  would 
prove  his  worth;  he  would  make  her  learn  that 
Henry  J.  Jackson  was  something  more  than  a 
mere  worm  to  be  trod  on  and  snubbed. 

When  Miss  Tooney  sent  out  invites  the  very 
next  week  and  I  got  one,  and  Oriole  another — 
got  the  only  ones  that  she  sent  out  in  Harmony, 

269 


SIX  STARS 

we  cheered  up  most  almighty.  At  last,  we  says, 
we  are  swelling.  At  last,  we  says,  we  are  fit  to 
meet  these  aristocratic  Barktown  folks.  At 
last  we  are  near  the  only  goal  in  Harmony 
that  is  worth  winning.  But  we  didn't  under- 
stand. We  didn't  know  that  Henry  J.  Jack- 
son had  been  left  out  again  especial. 

He  was  setting  in  the  store  the  afternoon  of 
the  party,  thinking  very  hard,  when  I  come  in. 

1  'Is  it  true  that  you  and  Oriole  have  been 
honored  by  Miss  Octavia  Simpkins  Tooney f" 
he  asks,  rather  sad. 

"It  is  true,"  said  I,  slanting  my  see-gar  up 
and  blowing  out  smoke.  "A  very  select  af- 
fair, I  believe,  too." 

He  didn't  say  anything  more,  but,  after  a 
long  while,  he  got  up  with  a  sigh  and  limped 
out  and  up  the  street. 

That  very  evening  when  I  went  up  to 
Tooneys'  and  rung  the  bell,  who  should  open 
the  door  but  Henry  J.  Jackson;  who  should 
say  "Come  in"  and  take  my  coat  and  hat  and 
hang  'em  on  the  rack ;  who  should  lead  me  into 
the  parlor,  right  among  all  them  swells  from 
Barktown,  lead  me  up  to  Miss  Tooney,  who 

270 


THE  UPLIFTING  POWEK  OF  PRIDE 

was  smiling  dreadful?  What  should  he  say 
but,  "  Allow  me  to  present  you  to  my  future 
bride." 

"Impossible!"  says  I,  not  believing  it  even 
then. 

"It  did  seem  impossible  at  one  time,"  says 
Henry  J.,  in  glad  tones.  "But  she  has 
stooped;  she  has  done  me  the  honor." 

Octavia  smiled  again  harder  than  ever,  and 
held  out  her  hand. 

"I  hope  you  will  be  happy,  Miss  Tooney," 
says  I,  as  cheerful  as  I  could. 

"Oh,  please  don't  call  me  Miss  Tooney," 
says  she,  as  sweet  as  you  please.  "Remember 
the  dear  old  days  when  we  were  children  to- 
gether and  call  me  Squint." 


271 


THE  SENTIMENTAL  MISS  TUBES 

HE   had  balanced  himself  nicely   on  the 
village  pump-trough,  and  between  puffs 
of  his  pipe  addressed  himself  to  a  select  com- 
pany of  his  fellow  townsmen. 

Sentiment  is  a  sign  of  uncivilizedness.  No- 
tice a  dog.  I  don't  suppose  any  of  you  uns 
ever  troubled  to  notice  a  dog,  but  if  you  do  you 
will  observe  that  there  is  more  sentiment  in 
the  average  coon-hound  than  in  the  best  edu- 
cated college  professor.  According  to  the  doc- 
trine of  evil-lution,  monkeys  was  descended 
from  dogs  and  man  from  monkeys,  and,  there- 
fore, the  monkey  has  less  sentiment  than  the 
dog  and  man  less  than  the  monkey,  it  having 
been  civilized  out.  Now,  I  never  have  had  a 
chance  to  observe  regular  monkeys,  but  I've 
studied  my  dog  William  well,  and  have  com- 
pared him  with  me,  and  I  am  free  to  consider 
myself  fairly  highly  civilized.  William  he  is 

272 


cross-bred — coon-hound  and  watch-dog — and 
he  is  fuller  of  sentiment  than  a  young  ladies' 
boarding-school.  Anything  old,  anything  with 
associations,  William  just  dotes  on — old  bones, 
old  clothes,  old  toys — anything  that  has  age. 
When  I  built  him  a  nice  new  house,  down  by 
the  barn,  he'd  never  live  in  it,  but  kept  on  sleep- 
ing on  the  pile  of  rag-carpet  on  the  back  porch 
where  he  had  spent  his  puphood.  He  did  use 
to  bring  in  other  dogs  to  show  them  the  house, 
and  he  stored  his  playthings  there,  but  he 
seemed  to  think  that  for  regular  living  he  liked 
the  old  home  best.  I  mind  well  the  time  my 
wife  throwed  away  her  gum  shoes.  William 
he  come  along  the  street  and  see  three  neigh- 
bors' dogs  dining  on  them.  He  knowd  them 
rubbers  at  once,  and  at  the  risk  of  his  life  sailed 
in  and  rescued  them.  It  cost  him  a  torn  ear 
and  the  end  of  his  tail,  but  he  got  them  safe 
down  to  his  house,  and  there  they  are  to  this 
day.  Once  it  seemed  to  me  like  the  place  was 
getting  kind  of  unhealthy  with  all  them  heir- 
looms of  his,  and  I  set  out  to  clean  it  with  a 
rake.  The  first  thing  to  come  out  was  a  gum 
shoe;  then  William  he  run  at  me  with  tears 

273 


SIX  STARS 

in  his  eyes  and  his  teeth  showing.  I  couldn't 
understand  his  exact  words,  but  I  judged  from 
the  way  he  took  on  it  was  something  like  this : 
" Don't  you  dast  touch  that  dear  old  rubber 
that  mother  used  to  wear."  And  I  didn't. 

Again,  if  you  observe,  you'll  notice  that  the 
more  thoroughly  civilized  folks  are  the  less 
they  care  about  nature.  It's  simply  because 
they  ain't  natural  any  longer.  Now,  if  I  set  on 
a  hill  and  look  over  the  walley  I  don't  spend 
a  whole  day  admiring  it.  Not  a  bit.  My 
brain's  too  active.  I  speckilate.  I  begin  to 
question  whether  the  walley  is  there  and  I'm 
here.  Mebbe,  after  all,  I  am  only  an  idee  and 
the  walley  an  impression,  as  the  professor  says. 
I  ain't  pop  sure  that  I  exist — not  being  able  to 
prove  it — and  if  I  don't  exist,  the  walley,  there- 
fore, is  nothingness.  With  William  it's  differ- 
ent. He's  not  educated  up  to  such  high  think- 
ing and  can  enjoy  the  scenery.  You  know  that 
when  you  see  him  lying  down,  with  his  head  be- 
tween his  f orepaws,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  moun- 
tains, kind  of  drinking  it  all  in,  when  you  see 
him  show  his  teeth  and  give  a  gentle  wag  of 
his  stump  tail. 

274 


THE  SENTIMENTAL  MISS  TUBES 

But  I'm  not  going  to  speak  of  William,  won- 
derful dog  as  he  is.  He  has  simply  been  useful 
for  observation.  I  had  been  thinking  of  Annie 
May  Tubbs,  who  visited  in  Harmony,  and  had 
been  comparing  the  two.  She  was  the  most 
sentimentalist  girl  I  ever  knowd,  and,  while 
William  could  give  her  points,  still  she  had  that 
wild  strain  of  which  I  have  spoke.  Everything 
affected  her  terrible.  William  he  howled  at  the 
moon;  Annie  May  she  only  cooed  at  it;  Miss 
Spiker,  who  had  gradeated  at  a  normal  school 
and  was  very  highly  educated,  said  the  night 
air  was  obnoxious  and  she  wouldn't  contract 
appendisightis  watching  any  old  wore-out 
planet — which  goes  to  illustrate  my  point. 

Now,  most  of  the  weemen  of  Harmony  was 
very  highly  educated,  for,  besides  their  regular 
schooling,  they  had  a  sewing  circle,  and  a  read- 
ing circle,  and  a  discussion  club.  Of  course 
there  was  some  that  wasn't  so  well  up,  because 
they  had  to  work,  and  when  you  have  to  cook 
three  meals  a  day,  and  clean  the  house,  and 
weed  the  garden,  and  put  the  children  and 
grandpa  to  bed  you  don't  have  much  time  to 
look  at  the  moon  and  sigh.  So  when  Annie 

275 


SIX  STARS 

May  Tubbs  came  to  Harmony  to  spend  the  sum- 
mer with  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Stacy  Hopper,  she  was 
new.  We  had  never  seen  anything  just  like 
her,  and  was  took  by  storm. 

I  have  said  previous  that  I  never  really  loved 
but  one  woman — no  man  really  loves  more  than 
one  woman,  though  he  may  keep  company  with 
a  dozen  and  marry  the  last  and  be  happy  ever 
after.  It  was  Clara  Wheedle  that  was  my  fate — 
she  of  whom  I  have  spoke,  who  had  give  up  her 
life  for  her  art  and  subsequently  married  the 
feather-weight  champeen  of  Snyder  County. 
When  she  left  Harmony  with  her  he-ro  and  her 
pie-anno  it  seemed  to  me  like  all  the  world  was 
an  arid  desert  and  all  weemen  was  false.  From 
a  natural  happy,  pleasant  man,  I  become  melan- 
choly and  sour,  and  set  around  the  store  all 
day  saying  mean  things  about  the  gentle  sect, 
for  I  had  been  stabbed  in  the  heart,  and,  though 
I  might  marry  and  settle  down  some  day  and 
be  contented  like,  I  knowd  well  enough  that  I 
had  a  wound  that  would  never  heal,  but  would 
keep  gently  bleeding  till  I  died.  That  wound 
is  open  yet,  but  it  hasn't  hindered  me  getting 
around  fairly  well.  It  didn't  prevent  me 

276 


THE  SENTIMENTAL  MISS  TUBES 

either  from  taking  notice  of  Annie  May  Tubbs. 
'Most  anybody  would  have  taken  notice  of 
Annie  May,  for  she  had  a  peculiar  soft  eye,  and 
a  kind  of  clinging  figger,  and  a  voice  that 
lingered.  The  minute  I  see  her  setting  on  the 
Hoppers'  front  steps,  I  began  to  cheer  up,  and 
that  night  I  strolled  down  to  call. 

There  in  the  room  was  Stacy  Hopper  and 
Mrs.  Hopper  and  the  seven  little  ones,  and 
Annie  May;  and  when  I  had  been  a  half  hour 
talking  about  the  crops  and  Ossy  Dinkle's  new 
mare,  I  noticed  that  she  begin  getting  more  and 
more  onrastless.  Finally,  when  she  kind  of 
couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,  she  ups  and  says: 
"Come  into  the  garden,"  she  says,  speaking 
like  a  lady  in  a  book. 

I  wasn't  anxious,  for  I  had  on  a  pair  of  white 
canvas  long  tennis  shoes,  which  was  all  the  rage 
for  evening  wear  in  those  days,  and  my  feet 
looked  very  fetching  in  the  lamplight,  but  when 
them  pleading  eyes  met  mine,  and  the  voice 
kind  of  lingered,  I  didn't  dare  refuse,  though 
Mrs.  Hopper  was  arguing  that  the  grass  was 
wet. 

"There's  a  lovely  moon,"  says  Annie  May. 
277 


SIX  STAES 

And  that  settled  it.  Out  we  went  into  the 
chilly  evening,  through  the  wet  grass,  my  new 
white  shoes  soaking  up  the  water  like  sponges, 
into  the  garden,  till  we  come  to  a  tomayto 
frame,  where  she  set  down  and  sighed.  And 
I  set  alongside  of  her  and  was  silent,  wonder- 
ing what  it  was  all  about. 

" Ain't  the  moon  perfect  to-night?"  she  says, 
very  soft. 

"It  is  perfect,"  I  says,  "only  it's  drawing  up 
water,  and  that  means  rain  to-morrow,  and  that 
will  spoil  the  baseball  game,  and  I  am  going  to 
pitch,"  I  says. 

Annie  May  just  sighed.  The  ice  began  to 
freeze  on  my  feet. 

"It's  blowing  up  kind  of  sharp,"  I  says, 
chattering  a  little. 

"Ah,"  she  says,  says  she,  "doesn't  the 
moon  look  like  a  great  ball  of  gold?" 

"If  it  was,"  I  answers,  "  it  wouldn't  have 
been  hung  there  so  long."  For,  as  the  Good 
Book  says,  there  was  financial  giants  in  those 
days. 

Annie  May  didn't  seem  to  understand,  but 
kept  on  treating  the  moon  like  it  was  something 

278 


THE  SENTIMENTAL  MISS  TUBES 

unusual  and  had  just  appeared  for  the  first 
time. 

"Doesn't  a  great  peace  come  over  you  on  a 
night  like  this,"  she  says,  says  she,  "when  all 
the  world  is  so  beautiful  and  restful  ? ' '  she  says. 
"Doesn't  it  awaken  sweet  and  tender  feelings 
in  your  boosum!"  she  says. 

I  never  heard  a  girl  speak  that  way  before, 
and  it  kind  of  took  me  back  for  the  minute.  But 
even  in  the  moonlight  I  could  see  her  eyes,  and 
her  voice  lingered  so  that  I  forgot  how  uncom- 
fortable I  was  on  that  splintery  tomayto  frame, 
and  begun  to  feel  kind  of  foolish  myself.  The 
trouble  was  I  didn't  know  just  what  to  say, 
for  in  Harmony  we  weren't  well  trained  in 
moonlight  scenes,  and,  while  I  was  looking 
around  for  some  nice  tender  sentiment  that 
would  seem  fitting  to  the  occasion,  she  broke 
in  again. 

"Doesn't  your  heart  yearn  for  some  one  to 
love!"  she  sighs. 

When  a  girl  asks  you  that  it's  mighty  easy 
to  answer  to  suit  her.  I  knew  just  what  to  say, 
and  I  wanted  to  say  it,  only  my  teeth  began  to 
chatter  and  the  night  air  was  clinging  to  my 

279 


SIX  STAKS 

chest,  choking  me  badly,  and  altogether  I  felt 
terrible. 

"Your  silence  seems  to  answer  yes,"  she 
went  on,  more  lingeringer  than  ever. 

"Your  feet  must  be  getting  cold,"  I  says, 
most  unexpected  to  me.  It  wasn't  what  I  had 
allowed  to  remark  at  all.  What  I  had  really 
meant  to  say  was  "Yes,"  and  no  one  was  more 
surprised  than  I,  not  even  Annie  May.  But 
she  must  have  been  used  to  being  misunder- 
stood, poor  girl,  for  she  just  sighed  and  looked 
up  at  me.  Mebbe  she  did  see  that  I  was  more 
civilized  than  she  was ;  that  I  had  been  brought 
up  to  staying  indoors  by  the  stove  at  night, 
educating  myself  with  books  and  discussion  in- 
stead of  setting  in  the  damp  and  raving  over  a 
wore-out  planet,  as  Miss  Spiker  called  it.  She 
sighed  a  couple  of  times  more,  and  then,  for 
fear  she  would  hear  my  chill,  I  chattered 
again. 

"Ah,  no,"  she  says,  "I  love  to  bathe  my  feet 
in  the  dew,"  she  says,  speaking  like  dew  was 
spelt  d-e-u. 

Not  since  I  took  music  lessons  from  Clara 
Wheedle  had  I  been  so  affected.  If  my  feet 

280 


THE  SENTIMENTAL  MISS  TUBES 

hadn't  been  so  wet,  and  my  teeth  chattering  so, 
and  my  voice  so  husky,  I  would  have  swore  to 
her  then  and  there  that  she  was  the  only  woman 
I  ever  loved;  that  without  her  I  would  pine 
away  and  wither  like  the  rose;  I  would  have 
pleaded  with  her  to  flee  with  me  to  some  far 
world  where  for  all  eternity  we  could  be  alone — 
things  I'd  allus  planned  to  say  to  some  girl, 
but  could  never  get  out.  Sometimes  I  think  I 
might  have  got  it  out  then,  only  a  window  rat- 
tled behind  us,  and  Mrs.  Hopper  she  called  to 
us  very  sharp. 

"You  uns  will  catch  your  death  of  cold," 
she  says. 

"I  have  ketched  mine  already,"  I  answered, 
very  prompt. 

"It's  sweet  out  here,"  says  Annie  May,  "but 
it  isn't  the  place  for  timid  folks." 

She  rose  very  haughty,  and  from  the  way 
she  went  into  the  house,  so  proud  and  cold,  you 
might  have  thought  she  had  been  explaining 
politics  to  me. 

Coldness  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder,  as 
the  fellow  says,  coldness  and  absence  being  one 
and  the  same.  Annie  May  treated  me  just  like 

281 


SIX  STARS 

I  didn't  exist,  and  as  the  Hopper  family  were 
beginning  to  go  to  bed  there  was  nothing  for 
me  but  home.  And  once  home  I  didn't  leave  it 
for  a  week.  That  sentimental  evening  had  set- 
tled on  my  chest,  and  what  with  chills  and  mus- 
tard plasters  there  were  times  when  I  didn't 
care  whether  the  spark  kept  burning  or  not. 
I  used  to  lay  there  figgering  on  what  Preacher 
Spiegelnail  would  say  in  his  sermon  over  me, 
whether  he  would  point  out  what  a  loss  Har- 
mony was  suffering  and  how  a  life  full  of  great 
promise  to  humanity  had  been  cut  off.  It 
seemed  to  me  like  I  was  going  to  die  beautiful, 
giving  up  all  for  love  of  woman,  and  I  made 
a  will  leaving  her  my  dictionary  and  a  guitar 
and  noting  that  I  forgave  her.  Then  I  began 
to  recover. 

The  first  day  I  was  out  I  started  for  the  store, 
and  just  at  our  gate  ran  into  John  Quincy 
Koons,  the  town  poet. 

"Have  you  met  Miss  Tubbs  yet?'*  he  cries, 
not  waiting  to  inquire  after  my  health. 

"I  have,"  I  answers,  very  stern. 

"A  lovely  woman,"  he  went  on  in  the  most 
enthusiastic  manner.  "A  woman  of  sentiment, 

282 


THE  SENTIMENTAL  MISS  TUBES 

of  deep  feeling,  of  poetry.  She  has  high  ideas 
of  life  and  things.  I  would  that  I  was  worthy 
of  her. ' ' 

John  Quincy  stopped  a  minute  like  he  was 
deep  distressed,  for  he  knowd  how  hopeless  his 
love  was — he  was  poor.  But,  besides  being 
poor  and  a  poet,  he  wasn't  much  to  look  at, 
being  undersized  and  kind  of  thin  and  peekit 
in  the  face.  Seeing  him  take  it  so  bad  softened 
me  a  bit ;  so  says  I,  * '  She  is  a  lovely  woman. ' ' 

"Then,"  says  he,  "why  don't  you  marry  her 
and  make  her  happy?  You  are  worthy  of  her; 
you  are  handsome  and  a  tasty  dresser;  your 
mother  has  a  pension,  and,  more  than  all,  you 
are  a  thinker." 

"Quince,"  says  I,  "it's  good  of  you  to  put 
it  that  way,  but  I  take  cold  too  easy,"  With 
that  I  went  on  up  the  street. 

Mebbe  I  was  in  the  store  ten  minutes — mebbe 
it  was  five — but  it  wasn't  long  till  a  strong  odor 
of  liniment  entered,  followed  by  young  Oriole 
Jackson,  who  had  his  neck  all  done  up  in 
flannel. 

"Good-moming,  Oriole,"  says  I,  in  my  pleas- 
antest  style. 

283 


SIX  STAES 

' '  Good-bordig, ' '  says  he.  Then  he  coughed 
most  violent. 

"Have  you  met  Annie  May  Tubbs  yet?"  I 
asks,  most  innocent. 

"Do  you  subbose  you're  de  odly  bad  ever 
loogt  ad  the  bood?"  he  says,  getting  most  het 
up. 

Oriole  we  heard  a  loud  sneeze  on  the  store 
ment  than  a — than  me,"  I  says,  holding  out 
my  hand  affectionate.  And  he  took  it  and  shook 
it  most  grateful,  and  set  down  beside  me  for 
company's  sake. 

Mebbe  it  was  five  minutes — mebbe  it  was 
ten — but  anyway  it  wasn't  long  till  me  and 
Oriole  we  heard  a  loud  sneeze  on  the  store 
porch — then  another,  and  who  come  in  but 
Ossy  Dinkle. 

He  started  to  nod  all  around,  but  broke  it 
off  with  a  sneeze. 

'  *  Good-bording,  Oscar, ' '  says  Oriole  Jackson, 
most  sympathetic. 

"Good "  says  Ossy,  breaking  off  to  clap 

his  hand  over  his  mouth.  We  thought  he'd 
choke,  he  was  so  bad,  but  he  got  control  after 
a  while. 

284 


"I  want  a  box  of  them  Hoskins's  Household 
Candy  Cough  Drops,"  he  says  to  the  clerk  in  a 
hoarse  voice. 

"Got  a  cold,  Ossy?"  I  asks,  trying  to  be 
pleasant. 

"Does  it  sound  like  rheumatism?"  he  snaps, 
most  unpolite. 

"Wet  feet,  I  allow,"  says  Oriole,  giving  me 
a  wink. 

"Fishing,"  says  Ossy,  with  a  sneeze. 

"Wasn't  the  hood  beautiful?"  says  Oriole, 
perfectly  ca'm. 

Ossy  he  stared  at  Oriole  Jackson  a  minute, 
then  at  me. 

"I'm  getting  over  pneumonia,"  says  I, 
rather  sad. 

"Oh!"  he  says.  Anr1  with  that  he  set  down 
on  the  bench  between  us,  most  friendly,  and 
choked  and  sneezed  for  ten  minutes,  or  mebbe 
it  was  five,  but  it  isn't  any  difference,  only 
when  he  was  quiet  again  he  looked  at  me  and 
then  at  Oriole.  "  It 's  queer, ' '  he  allowed, ' '  that 
the  three  biggest,  and  handsomest,  and  eligi- 
blest  men  in  Harmony  can't  stand  sentiment. 
Further,"  says  he,  "it's  queer  that  a  thin,  deli- 

285 


SIX  STARS 

cate,   peekit   little   fellow   like   John   Quincy 
Koons  thrives  on  wet  feet  and  full  moons." 

Ossy  Dinkle  was  right.  John  Quincy  Koons 
did  thrive  on  wet  feet  and  full  moons.  If  I 
could  have  stood  the  damp  like  him,  my  whole 
life  might  have  changed.  If  I  could  have  spoke 
as  nice  as  he  about  the  twinkling  stars,  the 
soft  music  of  the  crickets,  the  whispering 
breezes  and  such  like  things  that  happen  on 
moonlight  nights  I  might  have  won  the  most 
beautiful  and  charmingest  girl  that  ever  come 
to  Harmony.  But  I'd  been  too  highly  civil- 
ized, too  spoiled  by  stoves  and  paytent  rockers 
and  headlight  lamps,  all  the  modern  comforts 
that  keeps  us  indoors  to  strengthen  our 
minds  and  weaken  our  constitutions.  I  left 
the  garden  and  the  tomayto  frame  to  John 
Q.  Koons,  but  nothing  ever  happened  but 
po-ems.  And  such  po-ems  as  he  wrote!  The 
county  paper  printed  one  after  Annie  May 
Tubbs  finished  her  visit  and  went  back  to 
Bunkerville.  It  was  called  "Alone,"  and  run 
something  like  this:  "A.  M.  is  gone,  the 
world  is  dark  and  drear;  the  moon  no  longer 
shines  upon  me,  dear."  Ossy  Dinkle  he  al- 

286 


THE  SENTIMENTAL  MISS  TUBES 

lowed  that  "A.  M."  referred  to  the  forenoon, 
but  when  we  see  "J.  Q.  K."  at  the  end  of  the 
piece  we  realized  that  his  love  had  never 
been  damped  nor  its  course  turned  aside  by 
wet  feet. 

His  love  never  was  damped.  Neither  was 
Annie  May  Tubbs  's.  Of  course  they  never  mar- 
ried. Years  afterward,  when  I  was  doing  a 
little  in  the  line  of  pumps  and  lightning-rods 
down  Perry  County  way,  I  run  across  her, 
setting  on  her  pa 's  front  porch.  She  was  older 
then,  but  still  had  remains.  Her  hair  was  fall- 
ing and  she  wore  spectackles,  but  the  lingering 
voice  was  unchanged — soft  as  ever;  and  she 
sighed  as  she  led  me  into  the  room. 

1  'Of  course  you  are  married  by  this  time," 
I  says,  spying  around  for  children. 

"Ah,  no,"  she  says,  looking  kind  of  pathetic 
at  a  picture  on  the  wall.  "We  are  waiting — 
still  waiting." 

It  was  John  Quincy  Koons  again,  who  I'd 
'most  forgotten — a  splendid  crayon  enlarge- 
ment, fattened  up  a  bit,  but  looking  soulfuller 
than  ever. 

"Some  day,"  she  says,  kind  of  wistful, 
287 


SIX  STARS 

"some  day  some  one  may  leave  him  some- 
thing, and  then  we  hope  to  be  united  at  last." 

"Meantime  he's  writing  poetry?"  says  I. 

"He's  writing  dreams,"  she  answered,  very 
proud.  "Haven't  you  seen  his  'Ode  to  Annie 
May,'  in  the  last  Snyder  County  Guardeen?" 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  he  borrowed 
money  from  you,  too?"  I  said,  for  I  never  did 
like  John  Quincy  Koons  anyway. 

She  looked  at  me  most  reproachful.  "You 
never  had  any  sentiment  in  your  sordid  soul," 
she  said,  as  stern  as  she  could,  in  her  soft 
voice. 

"Annie  May  Tubbs,"  said  I,  as  gentle  as  I 
could,  "sentiment  has  been  your  ruin — without 
it  you  might  have  married  money." 


288 


THE  MODEST  MAN 

HE  had  been  sitting  on  the  store  bench, 
watching  the  clouds,  listening  to  the 
learned  discussion  that  waged  about  him,  when 
he  at  length  claimed  the  right  that  was  his  by 
virtue  of  age  and  wide  experience,  and  silenced 
all  others  to  tell  his  tale. 

•  •  •  •  • 

There  is  nothing  so  aggravating  as  a  modest 
man.  Folks  that  are  big  feeling  and  proud 
just  makes  me  laugh,  but  these  here  retiring 
men  that  can  do  everything  better  than  any- 
body else  and  then  say  it  don't  amount  to  noth- 
ing— they  make  me  boil  all  over.  Oh,  why 
should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud,  as  the 
fellow  says.  Why?  Because,  nohow.  When 
we  see  folks  as  are  bigitive  and  stuck  up  we 
know  they  have  no  cause,  and  sets  'em  down 
as  fools.  But  the  more  modester  a  man  is  the 
more  better  you  feel  he  is  than  you,  and  if  any- 
thing makes  you  boil  it  is  to  know  that  some 

289 


SIX  STARS 

otter  fellow  is  your  superior,  and  yet  ain't 
blowing  about  it.  It  seems  like  nature  has  pro- 
vided that  if  a  man  does  anything  in  this  world 
that  is  worth  doing  he  must  immediately  com- 
pensate for  it  by  showing  it. 

The  most  modest  man  I  ever  knowd  was 
Elisha  Dumple,  who  lived  with»me  in  the  town 
of  Harmony.  There  was  nothing  in  the  world 
that  man  couldn't  do  oncet  he  set  his  mind  to 
it,  and  there  was  nothing  would  make  him  blow 
about  it  afterwards. 

"What's  the  use  of  pride?"  he'd  say. 
"S'pose  I  can  beat  everybody  at  checkers,  it 
doesn't  amount  to  anything,  anyway.  The  Al- 
mighty made  me  a  good  checker-player,  and 
the  praise  ain't  due  me,  surely." 

Then  he'd  kind  of  slink  away  home,  like  he 
was  ashamed  of  being  seen,  instead  of  walking 
around  town  telling  everybody  how  he  had  give 
Ossy  Dinkle  two  crowns  to  start  with  and  beat 
him  easy.  Then  nobody  ever  knowd  about  it 
till  it  would  slip  out  of  one  of  the  boys  who  seen 
the  game. 

"What,"  he'd  say,  "didn't  you  know  how  as 
Elisha  give  Ossy  two  crowns  and  beat  him?" 

290 


THE  MODEST  MAN 

That  would  set  everybody  talking  about  how 
modest  Elisha  was;  so  he  would  become  con- 
spicuouser  than  if  he  had  blowed. 

If  there  is  anything  we  humans  hate  it's  an 
angel — except  when  we're  sick.  It's  just  the 
same  as  homely  weemen  allus  making  the  best 
friends.  The  more  angelicer  the  other  fellow 
is  the  worser  you  feel  yourself,  and  we  are 
allus  more  ready  to  forgive  our  own  wices  than 
we  are  to  forgive  another 's  wirtues.  So  Elisha 
Dumple  was  the  most  unpopular  man  in  Har- 
mony. Of  course  some  said  it  was  because  he 
had  beat  everybody  at  everything,  but  I  fig- 
gered  it  out,  and  I  hold  I  am  right,  that  the  real 
trouble  was  he  was  so  modest  about  it. 

I  mind  the  time  Harmony  had  a  spelling  con- 
test with  Popolomus,  the  last  man  standing  to 
get  a  handsome  copy  of  "Pilgrim's  Progress." 
Elisha  never  made  a  miss,  and  when  all  the 
others  was  down  and  out  except  him  and  H«n- 
ery  Bunker,  of  the  opposing  team,  it  was  the 
grandest  spelling  I  ever  hear  for  a  whole  hour. 
Then  Henery  he  spelled  soupeny  with  a  p,  and 
the  prize  had  otter  gone  to  Elisha;  but  when 
Preacher  Spiegelnail  was  approaching  with  a 

291 


book  and  a  speech,  Elisha  he  disappeared 
through  the  window,  and  we  couldn't  find  him 
for  two  days. 

"I  done  nothing  to  deserve  a  speech  and  a 
prize,"  he  says,  "for  I'm  a  natural-born  spel- 
ler, and  the  praise  ain  't  due  me  for  winning. ' ' 

It  was  the  same  with  his  music.  I  never  hear 
a  lovelier  cornet  player,  yet  it  was  all  we  could 
do  to  make  him  blow  in  church;  and  when  it 
come  to  concerts,  he'd  stand,  with  his  knees 
shaking  and  his  face  as  white  as  snow,  play- 
ing the  exquisitest  pieces,  while  boys  like 
Lucien  Wackle,  with  their  horns,  had  to  be  kep' 
off  the  platform  with  a  club.  Once  Preacher 
Spiegelnail  referred  to  him  as  "the  divine 
songster  of  Harmony,  who  with  his  trumpet 
calleth  us  to  higher  things."  And  Elisha  he 
almost  broke  down  and  cried  and  said  he'd 
never  play  again  if  he  was  spoke  that  way  of. 

"Music  is  born  and  not  made,"  he  says, 
"and  it  ain't  for  me  to  take  praise  for  a  great 
talent  that  come  to  me  from  my  pa  and  ma." 

So  with  hog-guessing.  Elisha  was  a  born 
hog-guesser,  and  the  praise  wasn't  due  him  be- 
cause he  could  shut  one  eye  and  look  at  a  pig 

292 


THE  MODEST  MAN 

and  tell  you  his  weight  within  a  pound  and  a 
half.  That  come  to  him  natural,  and  I  must 
say  it  was  about  the  payingest  thing  he  did, 
for  every  fall  he'd  win  nine  out  of  ten  pools  at 
the  store,  and  I  allus  figgered  that  he  didn't 
win  that  one  just  to  keep  up  interest.  He 
allus  acted  like  he  was  ashamed  of  it,  and  he'd 
just  take  the  money  and  disappear,  while  Ossy 
Dinkle,  when  he  got  $3.25  for  guessing  correct- 
est  the  weight  of  Ezra  Wackle's  hog,  drove  up 
and  down  the  walley  in  a  buggy,  blowing  about 
how  he  had  beat  Elisha. 

In  checkers,  in  music,  in  shooting,  in  hog- 
guessing,  so  in  love.  Elisha  Dumple  was  hand- 
some and  an  elegant  talker,  and  it  seemed  like 
a  girl  had  only  to  set  eyes  on  him  and  she'd 
begin  to  sigh  and  pine,  and  lots  of  'em  pro- 
posed to  him  on  the  second  meeting.  It  wor- 
ried him  terrible.  I  mind  once  meeting  him 
coming  home  from  a  call  at  the  Sizzles 's.  It 
seems  that  he  had  just  refused  Rhoda  Sizzle, 
and  that  she  had  threatened  to  drown  herself 
in  the  well. 

1  'I  can't  understand  weemen,"  he  says  to 
me.  "This  here's  the  third  promise  of  sui- 

293 


SIX  STARS 

cide  I've  had  this  year,  and  all  simply  because 
I  am  handsome  and  can  talk  elegant  and  play 
checkers.  No  woman  had  ought  to  marry  a 
man  for  such  reasons.  If  they'd  only  love  me 
for  what  I  am,  and  not  for  what  I  look  like, 
and  for  who  I  have  beat,  and  for  how  I  can 
sing,  then  I  might  consider,  but  they  all  falls 
in  love  with  me  for  my  looks,  or  my  voice,  or 
my  checker-playing  and  hog-guessing,  for 
which  no  praise  is  due  me,  as  they  come  to  me 
natural.  What  do  they  amount  to,  anyhow,  in 
this  vain,  passing  world  of  ours?" 

Now,  had  Rhoda  Sizzle  made  me  an  offer  of 
marriage  in  them  days,  I'd  have  taken  it  quick 
— mighty  quick — and  had  she  throwed  herself 
in  the  well  on  my  account  I'd  have  jumped  with 
joy.  She  was,  by  all  odds,  the  loveliest  girl  we 
ever  see  in  Harmony.  Clara  Wheedle  was 
lovely,  but  it  come  mostly  from  the  expression 
of  the  eyes  and  teeth ;  but  for  plain  out-and-out 
perfect  features,  figger  and  fixings,  Rhoda 
Sizzle  was  way  ahead  of  her.  She  come  from 
Turkey  Valley  to  spend  the  summer  with  her 
uncle,  the  tinsmith,  and  it  wasn't  a  week  till 
the  whole  band  and  all  the  unmarried  boys  on 

294 


THE  MODEST  MAN 

the  baseball  nine  was  crazy  about  her,  and  took 
to  spending  the  entire  day  lounging  around  her 
end  o'  town  in  their  uniforms. 

She  was  nice  to  'em  all,  till  one  day  she  seen 
Elisha  Dumple  coming  along  the  street,  in  his 
retiring,  poetic  way,  and  he,  happening  to  look 
up,  she  ketched  his  eye,  and  he  blushed  all 
over  and  hurried  on,  which  was  something  that 
had  never  happened  to  her  before,  as  she  natu- 
rally expected  when  she  looked  that  way  he 
would  come  in  and  set  on  the  porch.  Ehoda 
had  never  knowd  a  really  modest  man,  and 
the  quicker  he  walked  on  the  madder  she  got. 
So,  one  of  the  baseball  boys  dropping  in,  she 
says,  says  she,  "Who's  that  pretty  man  just 
went  up  the  street,  with  yeller  curly  hair  and 
a  check  waistcoat  and  pink  sleeve-holders  1 ' ' 

And  the  more  she  was  told  who  he  was  and 
what  all  he  could  do  the  madder  she  got,  and 
when  a  woman  gets  mad  at  a  man  that  means 
that  love  is  awakening.  From  that  day  she 
pursued  Elisha  Dumple,  and  the  more  she  pur- 
sued the  modester  he  become  and  more  retir- 
ing. One  day  I  found  him  hiding  behind  his 
house  under  an  apple  tree,  smoking,  and  I  says, 

295 


SIX  STABS 

"Elisha,  why  don't  you  end  it  all  and  accept 
her?  She's  beautiful,  and  entertaining,  and 
rich,"  I  says,  "and,  moreover,  she's  pining 
away  for  you." 

"I  ain't  worthy  of  her,"  he  says,  in  his 
modest  way.  "She's  beautiful,  and  accom- 
plished, and  rich,  but  what  am  I?  Nothing! 
Nobody!  What  I've  done  don't  amount  to 
nothing,  and  simply  because  I  can  sing  better 
than  any  one  else — for  which  the  praise  isn't 
due  me — and  play  checkers,  and  guess  hogs  it 
wouldn't  be  right  for  me  to  expect  any  woman 
to  link  her  lot  with  mine. ' ' 

Just  then  we  seen  Rhoda  coming  down  the 
street,  and  he  dove  into  the  barn,  and  I  didn't 
see  him  again  till  that  afternoon  I  have  spoken 
of,  when  she  told  him  she  would  end  all.  Of 
course  she  didn't.  Sometimes  I  think  she'd 
'a'  been  happier  if  she  had  of,  but  weemen 
never  do  know  when  they  are  well  off.  They 
always  prefers  double  onhappiness  to  single 
blessedness.  If  she  had  'a'  drowned  herself 
she  wouldn't  'a'  been  in  Harmony  when  Alex- 
ander Hamilton  Hummer  come  to  town  and  put 
up  at  the  National  Hotel  and  changed  Elisha 

296 


THE  MODEST  MAN 

Dumple  for  the  better.  Alexander  was,  with- 
out doubt,  the  splendidest-looking  specimen  I 
ever  see — tall,  with  black  hair  and  piercing 
eyes  and  a  flowing  black  mustache,  and  never 
went  out  without  a  coat.  He  was  a  thorough- 
going fellow,  with  elegant  ways,  and,  though 
we  laughed  at  him  at  first,  we  soon  knowd 
better.  The  evening  he  arrived  he  come  into 
the  store  to  get  a  see-gar,  and  stopped  to  watch 
Ossy  Dinkle  and  Elisha  Dumple  at  checkers. 
Elisha  had  given  Ossy  three  crowns  and  beat 
him  easy,  and  natural  he  was  surprised  when 
Alexander  asked  him  if  he  could  play,  but  he 
was  modest  and  said  he  couldn't. 

"I  can't  either,"  says  Alexander,  "but  just 
for  fun  I'll  try  you  and  give  you  two  crowns." 

Elisha  smiled,  and  they  went  at  it.  Well, 
sirs,  in  about  ten  minutes  the  champeen  of 
Harmony  was  the  saddest  man  I  ever  see.  He 
tried  a  second  game,  and  was  worse  beat,  and 
then  he  went  stamping  out  of  the  store,  growl- 
ing how  as  he  did  not  care,  as  he  had  beat 
Ossy  Dinkle  anyway.  Alexander  Hamilton 
said  it  didn't  amount  to  anything,  as  he  had 
come  natural  by  it.  He  strolled  back  to  the 

297 


SIX  STAES 

hotel,  and  soon  we  heard  the  loveliest  piano 
playing  and  him  a-singing,  in  a  clear,  sweet 
tenor  voice  that  brought  tears  to  your  eyes. 
Preacher  Spiegelnail  happened  by,  and  conse- 
quently in  church  next  Sunday  Mr.  Hummer 
sung  the  solo  while  the  collection  was  taken 
up,  and  Elisha  Dumple  was  moved  down  to 
second  bass.  On  the  way  home  Elisha  button- 
holed me  and  asked  me  if  I  minded  the  time  the 
preacher  had  referred  to  him  as  the  "divine 
songster  of  Harmony. ' '  I  told  him  I  didn  't,  and 
he  said  folks  never  was  appreciated  in  this 
world,  but,  anyway,  he  still  believed  he  could 
sing  better  than  him — pointing  to  Alexander 
Hamilton  Hummer,  walking  with  Ehoda  Sizzle, 
his  arm  hooked  under  her  elbow  as  he  helped 
her  along. 

That  afternoon  I  went  up  to  call  on  Rhoda, 
and  found  her  setting  on  the  porch  in  a  ham- 
mock, a  perfect  picter,  with  Alexander  Hum- 
mer on  one  side  and  Elisha  Dumple  on  the 
other. 

"I  did  enjoy  your  singing  in  church  so 
much,"  she  says,  smiling  all  over  Mr.  Hummer. 

"It  didn't  amount  to  anything,"  said  Mr. 
298 


THE  MODEST  MAN 

Hummer,  most  modest.    "What  voice  I  have 
is  natural,  and  therefore  I  feel  that  no  praise 
is  due  me  when  I  can't  help  singing." 
'     "I  never  hear  'Peace,  Be  Still!'  better  ren- 
dered," says  Bhoda,  most  enthusiastic. 

"You  never  hear  me  sing  it,  did  you?"  asks 
Elisha  Dumple,  speaking  up  in  a  dry,  husky 
voice. 

"No,  I  have  not  been  so  unfortunate — I 
mean  fortunate,"  Bhoda  answers. 

"Mebbe  you  don't  know  that  I  am  popularly 
called  the  divine  songster  of  Harmony?"  says 
Elisha,  getting  all  het  up. 

"I  am  sure  that  you  sing  much  better  than 
me,"  says  Alexander  Hamilton  Hummer,  in 
the  kindest,  modestest  way. 

"And  I  didn't  come  by  it  natural,"  says 
Elisha,  swelling  his  chest.  "What  voice  I've 
got  is  my  own — cultivated  and  worked  up. 
Nuther  pa  nor  ma  knowd  a  note." 

"You  used  to  be  good  at  checkers,  too," 
says  I,  just  to  help  him  along. 

"I  give  Ossy  Dinkle  three  crowns  and  beat 
him,"  says  Elisha,  swelling  his  chest.  "And 
I'm  willing  to  bet  a  dollar  here  and  now  that 

299 


SIX  STARS 

I  can  beat  Mr.  Hummer,  playing  him  with  one 
eye  shut." 

"Of  course  you  can,"  says  Mr.  Hummer, 
very  retiring,  "You  are  a  far  better  player 
than  me,  only  luck  has  been  against  you." 

With  that  Mr.  Hummer  kind  of  shuts  Elisha 
off,  and  began  to  talk  most  delightful  about 
his  adventures  on  the  road  selling  see-gars,  and 
about  Philadelphia,  and  Harrisburg,  and  dif- 
ferent cities  he  had  seen.  But  you  couldn't 
keep  Elisha  Dumple  quiet.  He  broke  in  and 
said  he  had  seen  all  them  places,  and  told  about 
the  time  he  had  won  six  hog-guessing  contests 
in  a  row,  making  a  grand  total  of  $13.65  profits. 
Then  he  told  how,  when  he  was  at  the  normal 
school,  he  had  been  voted  by  the  young  ladies 
to  be  the  handsomest  gentleman  scholar.  Then 
he  told  how  he  had  beat  Ezra  Wackle  shooting 
at  a  mark  and  had  spelled  down  the  Popolo- 
mus  champeen.  It  was  disgusting  the  way 
he  talked,  but  he  seemed  more  natural  and 
more  human  than  he  had  been,  and  I  forgive 
him,  though  I  didn't  stay  to  hear  no  more. 

Well,  that  very  night  I  see  Elisha  a-going 
up  to  Rhoda  Sizzle's,  and  next  morning,  when 

300 


THE  MODEST  MAN 

I  met  him  on  the  street,  he  held  out  his  hand 
and  says:  " Congratulate  me.  I  have  won 
the  sweetest  girl  in  Harmony  in  face  of  the 
heaviest  opposition.  I've  beat  out  that  there 
Hummer  fellow,  with  all  his  looks  and  city 
ways  and  proud  talk.  He  was  just  mad  about 
Ehoda,  but  she  preferred  me." 

Elisha  Dumple  laughed  like  he'd  die. 

" Won't  he  be  crazy  when  he  hears  about 
it  ? "  he  says,  pointing  to  the  hotel,  where  Alex- 
ander Hamilton  Hummer  was  helping  a  woman 
and  some  seven  children  out  of  the  stage. 

"I'll  tell  him  now,"  says  Elisha,  hurrying 
along. 

But  when  we  come  up  Alexander  Hamilton 
says,  most  pleasant,  before  we  could  speak: 
"  Gentlemen,  I  want  you  to  meet  my  wife  and 
children. ' ' 

Elisha  Dumple  almost  broke  down  and  cried. 
He'd  'a'  become  retiring  again  and  would  have 
run  away,  but  she  wouldn't  let  him.  He  see 
his  mistake  too  late,  and  to-day,  if  you  go  to 
Harmony,  you'll  find  him,  setting  around  tell- 
ing how  he  beat  Os sy  Dinkle,  giving  him  five 
crowns,  in  1888,  and  how  he  won  ten  hog-guess- 

301 


SIX  STARS 

ings  in  a  row  in  1891,  clearing  $56.30  profit, 
and  how  Preacher  Spiegelnail  and  all  the  folks 
that  knowd  used  to  speak  of  him  as  "Angel- 
Voiced  Dumple."  Sometimes  he  tells  how  he 
won  his  wife  against  overwhelming  odds, 
though,  if  you  see  her  to-day,  you'd  wonder 
why  he  was  so  anxious  for  her. 

But,  anyway,  if  you  observe,  you'll  notice 
that,  generally  speaking,  only  them  is  modest 
as  can  afford  it. 


302 


HE  laid  a  penny  on  the  counter,  took  a 
stogie,  lighted  it,  fixed  himself  comfort- 
ably on  a  nail-keg  and  began  his  discourse. 

A  man  who  is  contented  may  be  happy,  but 
he  is  a  general  nuisance.  There  is  nothing 
more  aggravating  in  a  civilized  community 
than  a  fellow  who  is  allus  smiling  and  singing, 
allus  good  to  everybody  and  wishing  every- 
body was  as  happy  as  him.  A  certain  amount 
of  happiness  is  necessary  to  make  life  bear- 
able ;  too  much  of  it  would  make  life  uninter- 
esting. To  be  completely  happy  is  wrong. 
Nothing  upsets  a  community  more  than  one  of 
these  here  blissful  folks  who  never  lets  him- 
self be  swamped  under  an  avalanche  of  trou- 
bles, but  allus  bobs  up  serene  and  smiling  and 
singing.  Such  a  disposition  is  onnatural,  for, 
you'll  notice,  if  you  observe — you'll  notice  how 
as  nature  treats  everybody  about  alike.  When 

303 


SIX  STARS 

crops  is  poor  it  hits  the  whole  walley,  not  just 
the  one  farm,  and  when  one  man  makes  a  whole 
lot  more  money  than  anybody  else  he  gets 
heart  trouble  or  asthmy.  It's  curious  that 
nature  don't  lop  off  these  completely  happy 
folks,  but  I  s'pose  they  are  so  few  in  number 
it  isn't  worth  while  bothering.  You  can  figger 
on  about  one  in  every  walley,  and  he  is  just 
as  conspicuous  as  a  drunken  man  in  church, 
and  makes  the  same  amount  of  trouble. 

The  most  contentedest  man  I  ever  knowd 
was  Llwellyn  Lilly,  who  lived  at  the  fur  end  of 
Harmony  when  I  was  there.  His  ma  told  mine 
that  she  could  not  remember  the  time  when  her 
boy  wasn't  smiling  in  that  blissful  way  of  his. 
He  had  come  into  the  world  smiling  contented 
and  kept  it  up.  He  wasn't  born  with  a  silver 
spoon  in  his  mouth  nuther.  It  was  a  wooden 
one,  with  the  bowl  broke  off;  but  I  mind  him 
once  speaking  of  it  in  prayer  meeting,  and  he 
said  it  tasted  just  the  same  as  gold  to  him,  be- 
cause he  had  peace  in  his  heart.  He  wanted 
every  one  else  to  f oiler  him  and  have  the  same 
contented  life,  but  I  allus  figgered  that  if  we 
did  we'd  all  soon  starve  to  death.  Me  and 

304 


THE  CONTENTEDEST  MAN 

Llewellyn  went  to  school  together  as  boys,  and 
I  must  say  he  was  easy  to  get  along  with,  sim- 
ply because  he  always  give  in.  If  I  called  him 
a  fraidy-cat  he  wouldn't  get  his  fists  up  and 
come  at  me  head  down.  No,  sir.  He'd  smile. 
"I  am  what  I  am,"  he'd  say.  "And  what  I 
am  I  was  born,  and  if  I  was  born  a  fraidy-cat 
I  can't  change  it,  and  there's  no  sense  of  my 
getting  mad  at  you  for  telling  the  truth.  If 
you  ain't  telling  the  truth  it's  simply  your  mis- 
take, and  I  have  every  reason  to  be  all  the 
more  pleased!"  Then  he  would  smile  most 
contented. 

I  mind  another  day,  when  I  was  a-standing 
on  the  bridge,  looking  into  the  water  and  bel- 
lering,  and  bellering,  and  bellering,  because  I'd 
dropped  my  best  glass-alley  into  the  creek. 
Llewellyn  he  come  along,  whistling  merrier 
than  a  meadow-lark,  and  when  he  seen  me,  says 
he,  he  says,  " What's  the  matter?" 

"I've  lost  my  best  marble,"  says  I,  between 
bellers. 

"Which  goes  to  show,"  says  he,  "that  mar- 
bles is  a  source  of  unhappiness.  Now,  my  ma 
is  what  your  folks  calls  popr,  and  I  can't  have 

305 


SIX  STARS 

any  marbles,  and  not  having  'em  I  can't  lose 
'em,  and  when  I  see  you  a-howling  and  a-bel- 
lering  like  that  it  makes  me  more  contenteder 
than  ever." 

Anybody  can  see  that,  figgering  that  way, 
him  is  most  contentedest  who  has  nothing  in 
this  world  to  lose  and  didn't  gain  nothing  for 
fear  he  might  lose  it,  which  is  to  say  that  one 
of  them  Fiji  Island  men,  who  was  an  orphan, 
so  had  no  parents  to  lose,  and  an  old  bachelor, 
and  therefore  no  children,  and  could  wear  a 
few  leaves  and  live  on  the  bandanas  fresh  from 
the  tree,  would  live  a  happier  life  than  the  old 
Squire,  who  has  more  money  than  he  can  pos- 
sibly spend.  Now,  I'm  not  saying  but  what 
that's  the  right  idee  and  one  that  could  be  car- 
ried out  if  it  wasn't  fer  the  weemen  and  chil- 
dren, neither  of  which  is  philosophical  nor 
naturally  contented.  I  know  that  Llewellyn's 
ma  was  never  wery  contented — she  had  to  work 
too  much,  as  all  they  had  was  their  house  and 
lot  and  the  pension  she  got  from  the  Govern- 
ment because  her  first  husband  had  been  killed 
hunting  wild  turkeys.  Her  disposition  was 
ruther  sour-like,  but  she  said  that  she  was  sat- 

306 


THE  CONTENTEDEST  MAN 

isfied  to  see  him  happy  and  smiling  and  sing- 
ing, and  that  he  talked  so  beautiful  and  done 
so  many  kind  things  for  others  she  hadn't  the 
heart  to  spoil  his  life. 

He  did  do  kind  things.  I  mind  the  winter 
when  old  man  Croke  was  laid  up  with  rheuma- 
tism, and  couldn't  drive  the  stage,  and  was 
wery  hard  up.  Llewellyn  Lilly  he  spoke  about 
it  in  church  meeting,  and  he  got  up  a  subscrip- 
tion paper  and  made  Percy  Berry  head  it  with 
fifty  cents,  and,  though,  of  course,  he  having 
nothing  didn't  put  down  nothing,  he  convinced 
the  town  that  one  of  life's  greatest  pleasures 
was  to  give  to  others,  and  so  collected  $7.33  for 
the  sufferer.  Then  he  got  up  a  plan  to  have 
the  weemen  of  the  town  read  to  the  old  man 
every  afternoon,  and  when  pneumonia  set  in 
he  had  his  ma  stay  three  nights  nursing  the 
patient.  That  was  Llewellyn  Lilly  all  the 
time,  allus  thinking  of  others,  and  doing  things 
for  others,  and  smiling,  and  singing.  He  used 
to  come  down  to  store  and  argy  how  much 
more  blesseder  it  was  to  give  than  to  receive, 
and  once  he  told  us  that  his  only  ambition  in 
life  was  to  be  a  continual  ray  of  sunshine  to 

307 


SIX  STARS 

them  among  whom  he  was  throwed.  So  we 
kind  o'  forgot  his  regular  name,  and  for  some 
years  he  was  allus  spoke  of  as  Sunshine  Lilly. 

I  ain't  agin  sunshine,  but  the  trouble  was 
we  was  sunburnt  up  in  Harmony,  and  the  rays 
got  so  strong  at  times  that  some  of  us  used  to 
wish  we  could  get  in  the  shade  and  cool  off. 
The  man  as  was  most  het  up  about  it  was 
Simon  Wackle,  who  did  most  of  the  town  haul- 
ing, and  was  natural  ruther  upset  when  the  old- 
est of  his  span  of  mules  died — died,  if  I  mind 
right,  on  the  wery  same  day  as  Sunshine  Lilly 
lost  his  mother.  Preacher  Spiegelnail  he  went 
down  to  Lillys'  to  console  with  the  bereaved 
and  found  him  sitting  on  the  front  porch, 
smoking  and  smiling  most  contented,  which 
kind  of  took  the  good  brother  off  his  feet.  The 
preacher  he  was  a  nice  man,  but  mournful, 
and,  while  he  had  allus  p'inted  out  Sunshine 
as  the  loveliest  character  in  Harmony,  he  kind 
o'  felt  he  wasn't  conducting  himself  conven- 
tional under  such  like  circumstances. 

"Llewellyn,"  he  says,  most  solemn,  "this  is 
a  time  when  you  should  mourn. ' ' 

"Why  should  I  mourn?"  says  Llewellyn 
308 


THE  CONTENTEDEST  MAN 

Lilly.  "I  feel,  dear  brother,  that  mother  is 
happier  where  she  is.  This  is  a  season  of  con- 
tent for  me,  therefore." 

There  being  nothing  for  Preacher  Spiegel- 
nail  to  console  about,  he  turned  and  went  up 
the  street  till  he  come  to  Wackles',  where 
Simon  was  sitting  on  the  doorstep,  the  picter 
of  misery. 

"Cheer  up,  Brother  Wackle,"  says  Mr. 
Spiegelnail,  in  his  mournfullest  voice,  "I  ain't 
heard  of  any  great  grief  crossing  your  thresh- 
old." 

"I've  lost  a  mule,"  says  Simon,  most 
pathetic. 

' l  Only  a  mule ! ' '  says  the  preacher.  ' '  Shame 
on  you,  Simon  Wackle.  You  should  go  see  our 
young  friend  Sunshine  Lilly." 

With  that  he  set  down  beside  Simon  and  told 
him  how  he  had  gone  down  to  console  with  the 
bereaved,  and  what  he  had  said  to  Sunshine, 
and  what  Sunshine  had  said  to  him. 

Simon  Wackle  he  smoked  a  long  time.  Then 
he  says,  says  he:  "Well,  I  can  easy  believe 
Mrs.  Lilly  is  contenteder  where  she  is,  but  I 
ain't  so  sure  about  my  mule." 

309 


SIX  STABS 

Which  goes  to  show  that  Simon  Wackle  was 
not  so  happy  a  man  as  Llewellyn  Lilly,  but  yet 
was  much  more  natural.  The  way  he  talked 
about  our  young  friend  was  something  dread- 
ful, and  I  must  say  that  when  we  seen  that 
nothing  could  disturb  Llewellyn's  peace  of 
mind  it  preyed  on  us  awful.  If  there  is  any- 
thing makes  you  feel  sinful  and  low-down  un- 
happy and  desperate,  it's  having  an  angel 
around  continual.  We  all  concided  that  we 
would  get  along  better  if  we  was  either  rid 
of  Sunshine  Lilly  or  spoiled  him.  Many  a 
night  we  set  around  the  store  figgering  how 
we  could  make  him  unhappy,  but  we  couldn't 
conjure  up  a  plan.  First  we  thought  his 
mother's  pension  stopping  would  kind  of 
shake  him_up,  but  it  seems  the  Government 
didn't  hear  about  his  bereavement  for  some 
months,  and  the  money  kept  right  on  coming. 
When  it  did  stop  Llewellyn  just  smiled. 

"It's  pleasant  to  think,"  he  says,  "that  the 
great  American  Government  should  take  en- 
ough notice  of  my  humble  ma  to  stop  her 
pension,"  he  says. 

It  did  seem  that  there  was  nothing  in  the 
310 


THE  CONTENTEDEST  MAN 

world  that  could  spoil  a  disposition  like  that, 
and  we  gloomy  folks  in  Harmony  growed 
gloomier  day  by  day.  Solomon  said  that  the 
good  die  young,  and  he  was  a  most  wise  man, 
meaning,  of  course,  that  they  live  just  as  long 
as  there  is  some  one  to  support  them.  If  they 
have  to  support  themselves  they  become 
spoiled,  naturally.  The  time  seemed  to  have 
come  when  Sunshine  Lilly  either  had  to  die  or 
change,  for  his  last  dollar  was  gone  and  there 
was  nothing  left  him  but  a  house  and  lot;  so 
we  begun  to  hope  that  one  thing  or  another 
would  happen.  Something  did  happen,  and  it 
only  made  him  contenteder  than  ever,  and  he 
smiled  broader  and  sang  louder  and  more  feel- 
ingly in  church,  and  you  could  hear  him  whistle 
from  one  end  of  town  to  the  other.  One  of 
his  best  admirers  was  Laura  Wilt,  who  taught 
the  infant  class  in  Sunday-school,  and  for  some 
years  had  p'inted  him  out  to  the  scholars  as 
the  most  lovable  gentleman  in  the  whole  wal- 
ley;  so  it  was  an  open  secret  that  she'd  'a* 
married  him,  only  she  couldn't  afford  it;  but 
her  uncle  up  and  died,  and  in  three  days  she 
had  moved  down  to  Llewellyn's,  and  for  a 

311 


SIX  STABS 

while  they  was  the  happiest,  contentedest  pair 
I  ever  see.  She  was  allus  thinking  of  him,  and 
he  was  allus  thinking  of  other  people. 
Preacher  Spiegelnail  said  one  day,  right  out 
in  store,  as  he  came  down  to  get  his  mail,  he 
said  that  when  he  see  two  such  lovely  char- 
acters mated  it  made  him  feel  that  the  out- 
look for  this  world  might  not  be  so  dark  as  he 
had  hoped. 

"It's  like  a  great  burst  of  sunshine  when  I 
see  them  two  setting  together  in  church,"  he 
said.  "They  are  so  beamingly  happy,  so  sure 
of  a  joyful  life  in  this  world  and  a  still  joy- 
fuller  one  in  the  next;  they  seems  an  oasis  in 
a  desert  of  unhappy,  unpeaceful  faces — faces 
that  shows  plainly  the  disposition  to  swaller 
a  lion  and  strain  at  a  mule." 

The  preacher  was  looking  right  at  Simon 
Wackle,  and  Simon  he  got  so  mad  he  blowed 
hot  coals  out  of  his  pipe  all  over  his  beard,  so 
agin  he  had  beat  the  fire  out  he  was  most  up- 
set. He  didn't  say  nothing,  but  I  noticed  that 
next  week  he  took  his  one  remaining  mule  up 
to  Fairview,  where  there  was  nothing  but  Pres- 
byterians, and  stayed  there  till  he  died. 

312 


THE  CONTENTEDEST  MAN 

There  was  some  startling  changes  in  Har- 
mony that  week,  but,  though  I  would  not  say 
positive  that  it  was  the  uplifting  influence  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sunshine  Lilly,  it  did  seem  like 
they  mowt  have  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
Ossy  Dinkle  he  went  to  Philadelphy  and  got 
work  on  a  street  car;  Percy  Berry  he  got  a 
place  as  an  attendant  in  the  insane  asylum  at 
Harrisburg,  and  I  walked  over  to  Snyder 
County  and  stayed  there  nine  years,  visiting 
Mother's  relations. 

When  I  come  back  to  Harmony,  wery  natu- 
ral, the  first  thing  I  done  was  to  go  to  store, 
and  who  should  I  see  standing  behind  the  coun- 
ter clerking,  about  the  sourest,  most  unhappi- 
est,  discontentedest  looking  person  as  ever 
come  within  my  view — who  but  Llewellyn 
Lilly! 

"Why,  hello,  Sunshine!"  I  says,  a-holding 
out  my  hand  most  affectionate. 

He  didn't  take  it.  He  picked  up  a  bung- 
starter  ruther  threatening.  "Don't  you  men- 
tion that  name  again,"  he  says,  looking  very 
fierce. 

Natural  I  set  down  on  the  bench  and  stared 
313 


SIX  STARS 

at  him,  and  he  stared  back,  glowering  like  he'd 
eat  me. 

"Llewellyn,"  I  says,  "what  in  the  world  has 
come  over  you  that  has  changed  you  so  for  the 
better?" 

He  looked  around  and  see  there  was  no  one 
in  the  store.  His  face  softened  some.  "I'm 
married,"  he  said,  rather  hoarse. 

"But  you  was  married  before  I  went  vis- 
iting," says  I.  "Mrs.  Lilly,  she  was  contented, 
too.  Has  she  changed  for  the  better?" 

"She  has  changed,"  he  answers,  not  com- 
mitting himself. 

"I  allow  there  must  be  some  little  Lillys,"  I 
ventured,  the  idee  just  striking  me. 

"Three  beds  full,"  says  Llewellyn.  "Aged 
eight,  seven,  six,  five,  four,  three,  two,  one." 

"Splendid!"  I  says. 

"Mebbe  it  is,"  says  Llewellyn  Lilly,  ruther 
mournful.  "Still  I  can't  say  as  I'm  as  happy 
and  contented  as  I  used  to  be,  for  Laura  she  has 
to  do  plain  sewing  and  I  have  to  clerk,  and  we 
don't  have  no  time  to  do  good  to  others." 

"You  can't  smile  and  sing  much,"  says  I. 

"No,"  he  says,  gloomier  than  ever.  "But 
314 


THE  CONTENTEDEST  MAN 

I  s'pose  there  are  compensations.    I've  a  wife 
and  children  and  a  home." 

"Llewellyn  Lilly,"  says  I,  wery  solemn,  "if 
you  observe,  you'll  notice  that  as  soon  as  a  man 
begins  to  shine  wery  lovely  in  this  world  a 
woman  puts  him  out." 


THE  END 


315 


By   NELSON   LLOYD 

THE  SOLDIER 
OF  THE  VALLEY 

ILLUSTRATED   BY  A.  B.  FROST 
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